Lost Regiment of Videssos Book One: The Misplaced Yankees
by Dragonsquire
Summary: GBW's dead horse, revised and edited. They were swept from Civil War America and banished to a world of magic, dark intrigue, and horrifying conflict.
1. Prologue

**Lost Regiment of Videssos: The Misplaced Yankees**

Author's Note: This is a revised and edited adaption of GBW's great fanfic _The Lost Regiment of Videssos._ After reading this on Alternate History Discussion, I realized this fic was too good to stay dead. As it is over ten years old, I decided I would try my own spin on it. However GBW if you see this and object, let me know and I will take it down.

The Lost Regiment series and all related characters belong to William R. Forstchen. The Videssos Cycle and all related characters belong to Harry Turtledove. No money is being made from their use so please don't sue me-go sue the people who keep making Adam Sandler movies instead.

 **January 6, 1865**  
 _Four hundred miles southwest of Bermuda_

For the first time in three days, Andrew Lawrence Keane realized, the seasickness had left him. He paused for a moment in wonder; was there nothing left in him to get sick with, or was it the simple stark terror of what was happening?  
Tobias Cromwell, insisting that the growing storm would not interfere with his schedule, had passed out of the Chesapeake and on into the Atlantic, even as the wind gust picked up to thirty knots. From there it had simply gotten worse, and by the end of the day they were racing before a southwesterly gale of near-hurricane proportions. The boilers had long since been damped down, and now they were running bare-poled before the wind.  
Hanging on to a railing next to the wheel, Andrew watched as Tobias struggled to keep them afloat.  
"Here comes another!" came the cry from the stern lookout.  
Wide-eyed, Tobias turned to look aft.  
"Merciful God!" he cried.  
Andrew followed his gaze. It seemed as if a mountain of water was rushing toward them. A wave towered thirty or more feet above the deck.  
"A couple points to starboard!" Tobias roared.  
Mesmerized, Andrew watched as the mountain rushed down upon them and the stern rose up at a terrifying angle. Looking forward, he felt that somehow the ship could never recover, that it would simply be driven like an arrow straight to the bottom.  
The wall of water crashed over them, and desperately he clung to the rope which kept him lashed to the mizzenmast. The ship yawed violently, broaching into the wind. As the wave passed over them, he saw both wheelmen had been swept off their feet, one of them lying unconscious with an ugly gash to the head, the wheel spinning madly above them.  
Tobias and several sailors leaped to the wheel, desperate to bring the ship back around.  
"Here comes another!"  
Rising off the starboard beam, Andrew saw another wave towering above them.  
"Pull, goddammit, pull!" Tobias roared.  
Ever so slowly the ship started to respond, but Andrew could see that they would not come about in time. For the first time in years he found himself praying. The premonition that had held for him and the regiment, that they were damned, was most likely true after all, even if the end did not come on a battlefield.  
The wave was directly above him, its top cresting in a wild explosion of foam. The mountain crashed down.  
He thought surely the rope about his waist would cut him in two. For one wild moment it appeared as if the ship was rolling completely over. His lungs felt afire as they were pushed beyond the bursting point. But still he hung on, not yet ready to give in and take the breath of liquid death.  
The wave passed, and Andrew, gasping for air, popped to the surface. They had foundered, the vessel now resting on its portside railing. Helpless at the end of the rope, he looked about, cursing that his fate was in the hands of a captain who had killed them all for the sake of his foolish pride.  
"Damn you!" Andrew roared. "Damn you, you've killed us all!"  
Tobias looked over at Andrew, wide-eyed with fear, unable to respond.  
Tobias's gaze suddenly shifted, and with an inarticulate cry he raised his hand and pointed.  
Andrew turned to look and saw that yet another mountain was rushing toward them, this one even higher than the last, the final strike to finish their doom.  
But there was something else. Ahead of the wave a blinding maelstrom of light that appeared almost liquid in form was spreading out atop the wave like a shimmering cloud of white-hot heat.  
The cloud swirled and boiled, coiling in upon itself, then bursting out to twice its size. It coiled in for a moment, then doubled yet again.  
"What in the name of heaven-?" Andrew whispered, awestruck by the apparition. The intensity of the light was now so dazzling that he held up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.  
There seemed to be an unearthly calm, as if all sound, all wind and rain, were being drained off and they were now lost in a vacuum.  
But still the wave continued to rise behind it, and then, to Andrew's amazement and terror, the wave simply disappeared as if it had fallen off the edge of the world. Where a million tons of water had been but seconds before, now there was nothing but a gaping hole, filled by the strange pulsing light.  
Suddenly the light started to coil in yet again, then in a blinding explosion it burst back out, washing over the ship.  
The deck gave way beneath Andrew's feet, and there was nothing but falling, a falling away into the core of light as if they were being cast down from the highest summit.  
There was no wind, no sound, only the falling and the pulsebeat of the light about them. As his thoughts began to slip away, Andrew was roused to a modicum of alertness by the sight of a red-gold dome crashing through the pulsing light curving a tunnel about the ship.  
With alarming swiftness, the dome approached the ship rapidly and, before Andrew could cry out, the ship and the dome collided.  
The dome of red-gold light faded most of the way, then, as if guided by a will, the dome drew streamers of light from the pulsing light of the tunnel surrounding the entire scene and blazed forth to full strength once again, expanding to surround the ship in a sphere of golden light.

The sphere of golden light crashed into the pulsing light of the tunnel and pushed through, leaving the ship suspended in nothingness. As his thoughts finally slipped away, the toll of exhaustion and the extraordinary events overtaking him, Andrew could only wonder if this was death after all.


	2. Chapter 1

**Lost Regiment of Videssos: The Misplaced Yankees**

The _Lost Regiment_ Series and all related characters are the property of William R. Forstchen; likewiwise the _Videssos Cycle_ and it's characters belong to Harry Turtledove. I'm not making any money so please don't sue me-sue whoever thought of copyright laws instead.

Chapter 1

Andrew awoke to the glare of the sun in his eyes. Groaning from the bruises that covered his body, he sat up and looked around.  
Were they dead? Was this the afterworld? Or had they somehow survived? He came to his feet, and from the way the protest of bruised muscles coursed to his brain, he somehow felt he must be alive after all.

But how? All he could recall was that endless falling, the pulsing light and then the golden sphere that replaced it. He struggled with the memory. He seemed to recall awakening at some point, the sound of waves washing up on a shore surrounding him, an expanse of stars across a night sky above with no moon.

Improbable, he thought. The wave must have knocked him unconscious and somehow that damned captain had managed to save them after all.  
The deck of the ship was a shambles. All three masts were down, with rigging, spars, and canvas littering the deck from stem to stern. In more than one place Andrew could see a lifeless form tangled in the wreckage. He'd have to get the men moving to start cleaning this up and disposing of the dead.  
But where were they? Rubbing the back of his neck, which felt sunburned, he raised his eyes. They were aground, the shore a scant fifty yards away. The sandy beach before them quickly gave way to brush and low trees, and beyond he could see a series of low-lying hills.  
Fumbling with his one hand, he managed to untie the rope about his waist.  
It was warm, made warmer by the still-damp wool of his salt-encrusted uniform jacket that trapped beads of sweat he could feel coursing down his back.  
They were alive, but where? Had they run all the way to Bermuda, or were they now wrecked somewhere along the coast? It had to be somewhere in the south. It could never be this warm in the north at this time of year.  
Could it be the Carolinas? But no, he remembered that hills didn't come this close to the sea. Perhaps he was mistaken, but best not to take any chances-they'd have to assume they were in rebel territory till it was proved different.  
"Colonel, you all right?"  
Hans Schuder popped his head up from an open hatchway, and for the first time in memory, Andrew could see that his old sergeant had a look of total bewilderment on his face.  
"All right, Hans. Yourself?"  
"Damned if I know, sir," and the sergeant pulled himself up onto the deck. "I thought we'd gone under, and then there was this light. For a moment there I thought, Hans, old boy, it's the light of heaven and those damned stupid angels have made a mistake. And the next thing I know I wake up still alive."  
"What's it like below?" Andrew asked.  
"Six hundred men puking their guts out. Ain't very pleasant, sir. Couple of the boys got killed from the battering, a number of broken limbs, and everyone with bruises. They're just starting to come to now."  
"Well, go below and start getting them up on deck. There's work to be done."  
"Right sir," and the sergeant disappeared back down the ladder.  
"So you finally decided to get up."  
Andrew groaned. He knew he shouldn't think it, but he found himself wishing that Tobias had been swept overboard.  
"Where the hell are we?" Andrew asked, turning to face the captain, who was strolling down the deck toward him.  
"South Carolina, I reckon. I'll shoot an angle on the sun and soon have it figured out."  
"How did we get here?" Andrew asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.  
Tobias hesitated for only a second.  
"Good piloting, that's all," he replied, but Andrew could sense the doubt in his voice.  
"And that strange light?"  
"St. Elmo's fire, but I reckon a landlubber like you never heard of it."  
"That wasn't St. Elmo's, Captain Tobias. It knocked all of us out and we woke up here, and I daresay you can't explain it more than I can." The - vision? - Andrew decided to keep to himself.  
Tobias looked at him, trying to keep up the front, then turned away with a mumbled curse.  
"We've been hulled. I'm going below to check the damage. I suggest we get started straightening this ship out, and I expect your men to help where need be."  
Without waiting for a response, Tobias headed for the nearest hatchway and disappeared below.  
Within minutes the deck was aswarm with men staggering up from below, most of them looking rather the worse for wear. As quickly as they came up, the various company commanders tried to sort them out and run a roll. Spotting Kathleen coming out from the captain's cabin, he hurried to her side.  
"You all right, Miss O'Reilly?"  
She looked up at him and smiled bleakly.  
"Long as I live I'll never set foot on a ship again." The two of them laughed softly.  
"Sergeant Schuder told me there've been some casualties. I'd deeply appreciate it if you would find Dr. Weiss and give him your assistance."  
He continued to look at her closely, not wanting to admit that he had been concerned for her.  
"Colonel, sir!"  
Andrew looked up to a private standing atop the ship's railing and pointing off to shore. He came up to his side and looked at the boy, trying to remember his name. The boy was nothing more than a mere slip of a lad, standing several inches below five and a half feet in height. His red hair, freckled face, and cheerful open expression gave him an innocent, almost childlike look. Andrew fished for his name, wondering how this lad had ever gotten past the recruiting sergeant. Then again, army recruiters were simply interested in warm bodies, nothing more. Suddenly the name came back to him.  
"What is it, Hawthorne?"  
Vincent looked at him for a moment, swelling a little with the fact that the colonel knew his name. That was another thing learned from Hans-always know their names, even though too often the knowing in the end would cause pain.  
The boy was silent, still looking at him.  
"Go on, son. What is it?"  
"Oh, yes, sir. Sir, look over there, up near those rocks up there a couple of hundred yards up the beach. Seems like a cavalryman."  
Andrew shaded his eyes and looked to where the boy was pointing.  
Definitely movement. A rebel scout?  
Andrew looked around for Tobias, hoping he could get a spyglass, but the captain had yet to reappear.  
"Son, do you know where my quarters are?"  
"I think so, sir."  
"Well, run quick-there's a single chest there. My name's on the top. Inside you'll find my field glasses. My sword's there as well. Now fetch them quick, lad."  
"Yes sir!"  
Obviously impressed with the responsibility given to him, Vincent jumped off the railing and raced below.  
Andrew leaned over, still shading his eyes, and tried to get a better look at the lone horseman.  
"Stay where you are, dammit," Andrew whispered. "Just don't move."  
"Got something, colonel?"  
Andrew turned to see Pat O'Donald coming up to join him.  
He pointed to where the lone cavalryman sat, half concealed.  
"How'd your men take the storm?" Andrew ventured, while waiting for Vincent to return.  
"It's not the man, it's the horses," O'Donald said sadly. "We brought along enough for two guns and a cassion-the rest went on another ship. Most of them will have to be destroyed, or are already dead. I checked your horse, sir-he made it through all right."  
The tearful remorse in the major's voice was rather a strange paradox coming from a man with his reputation.  
"Your field glasses, sir," Hawthorne cried, near breathless as he raced up to Andrew's side.  
Andrew brought them up and focused.  
"Well, that is the damnedest," he whispered softly.  
If this was reb militia, then they sure as hell were scraping the bottom. The man wore a thin fringe of beard, and on top of his head a businesslike iron pot with an apron of mail riveted to it to cover his neck, and a bar nasal protected his face. He wore a shirt of mail reaching halfway down his thighs, and over it brown surcoat of light material.  
The man wore calf-length leather boots with spurs on the heels. And-Andrew grunted in surprise-he was carrying a bow and had a small round shield slung on his back and a saber at his belt.  
In front of Petersburg he saw deserters coming in almost daily, but at least they were still carrying guns.  
Andrew handed the field glasses to O'Donald, who started to laugh.  
"Faith and upon my soul! So there is the vaunted reb cavalry."  
As if realizing he was being watched, the lone horseman turned his horse about, and kicking it into a trot he disappeared from view.  
"Old men and children in the trenches, and now cavalry carrying bows and arrows. Won't those poor sots ever give up?"  
Still laughing, he handed the field glasses back.  
"He might look comical, major, but this could prove serious."  
"And how so?"  
"Those low hills there. Whatever it was you were laughing at could be going to get help right now. If they have a single section of artillery handy, all they need do is position themselves up there and shell us into surrender."  
O'Donald fell silent and turned to look back down the deck.  
"Too much of a cant here to deploy my guns to respond."  
"Exactly," Andrew replied. "We'd better get my men ashore immediately and dig in. Get your men moving and bring those Napoleon field pieces of your topside. That lifeboat there should be enough to ferry them ashore."  
Andrew looked back to where Vincent still stood.  
"Son, you'd better help me on with that sword," he said softly.

* * *

Colonel, with the captain's compliments he wants you back aboard ship."  
"Damn it all, what now?" Andrew turned on the messenger and saw that it was Bullfinch, the young ensign who had first led him aboard ship.  
"I'm sorry, sir, but the captain did not confide that in me," the boy said meekly.  
"All right. Just give me a minute."  
Andrew quickly surveyed the ground around him. One thing could certainly be said for the men of his regiment-six months of siege work in front of Petersburg had taught them how to dig. A triangular outworks forming a perimeter a hundred yards across at the base was already laid out in the dark loamy soil. It was already several feet deep on the two facing inland. O'Donald's men were finished with the first gun emplacement, commanding the apex of the line, and were now turning their attention to flanking position. One twelve-pound Napoleon had already been ferried out and emplaced. Looking back to the ship, he could see that the second weapon was being lowered over the side.  
It must have been one hell of a wave that pushed them this far in, Andrew thought, as he looked at the damaged hull resting in less than ten feet of water. Besides that, from the ship's compass the shore they were facing toward was to the east with the water westward, and he could recall no such coastline south of the Chesapeake.  
"Keep the boys at it, Hans," Andrew shouted, and following the ensign, he waded into the waters of the ocean and accepted the helping hands of two sailors aboard the ship's launch. Seconds later they were alongside the _Ogunquit_ , and with the help of a sling, Andrew was deposited on deck.  
There was a look of anxiety on Tobias's face, something that Andrew actually found to be pleasing.  
"What is it, captain?" Andrew asked coolly.  
"Colonel, can you climb the rigging?" And so saying he pointed up to where the shrouds to the mainmast still clung to the shattered maintop, thirty feet above the deck.  
"Lead the way."  
This was something he would never have worried about once, but since the loss of his arm, Andrew found the prospect somewhat frightening-though he'd never admit it in front of this man.  
Tobias scrambled up ahead of Andrew, almost as if taunting him. But all thought of insult died as he finally reached the shattered platform.  
"One of my men spotted them. I thought you should take a look."  
Fumbling for his field glasses, Andrew looked off to the shore.  
Through a gap in the hills he saw that the cavalryman had returned, and had brought someone else with him. His equipment was much like that of the first horseman's, though his surcoat was forest-green instead of brown.  
Andrew frowned. Seeing one cavalryman with that strangely primitive gear had been one thing, but it was another for him to come back not with the nearest reb forces but merely another one with similarly archaic gear. But from the way they were boldly approaching, they had to have some sort of power behind them.  
"My glass has more power than your field glasses," Tobias offered.  
It took a moment for Andrew to brace himself and focus the awkward telescope. He trained it upon the the two cavalrymen, and his brow furrowed in confusion.  
The two men had sun-darkened and weathered olive skin, their looks more of a Mediterranean cast than anything else. The one with the green surcoat carried a long scar on his left cheek and another above his left eye. He also had a thin fringe of beard, mostly dark but streaked with silver on either side of his mouth.  
Andrew looked over to Tobias, who wordlessly returned his gaze.  
"Captain-just where in God's earth are we?" Andrew whispered.  
"...I don't know," Tobias finally admitted.  
"Well, dammit, man, you'd better figure it out, because we sure as hell haven't landed in South Carolina!"  
Andrew started back down from the maintop and jumped to the deck, Tobias following him.  
"Get Dr. Weiss up here!" Andrew shouted, heading for the rail.  
"What are you going to do, colonel?" Tobias asked.  
Andrew turned on the captain, and stood quiet for a moment, thinking hard.  
"Can you get this ship afloat again?" he finally asked.  
"There's a hole down belowdecks big enough to ride a horse through!"  
"Then figure something out, dammit!"  
Andrew turned to see Emil coming up to join him. Together the two went into the lifeboat. Before it had even reached shore, Andrew leaped out, Emil puffing to keep up.  
"What is it, colonel?"  
"I want you to see what's coming," Andrew said. "Tell me if it looks like anything you've ever seen.  
He already had a strange suspicion, but immediately pushed the thought aside; it was simply too absurd.  
Racing ahead, all dignity forgotten for the moment, Andrew rushed to the entryway of the fortified position.  
"Hans! Sound assembly!" Andrew shouted.  
The clarion notes of the bugle and the long roll of the drum sounded. With the first note, Andrew felt a shiver run down his back. Suddenly the panic and confusion in his heart stilled; a crystal clarity of vision came over him.  
The encampment exploded into action. Men raced to pull on their jackets, snatch up muskets, and sling on cartridge boxes.  
Following the lead of the infantry, O'Donald called for the two pieces already ashore to be wheeled into their emplacement. Then he led his command to fall in by the men of the 35th.  
Within seconds the old ritual, which they had acted out hundreds of times before, was played out: the ranks forming, muskets being grounded, the men dressing the line. Then when all were in place each company snapped to attention, their company commanders turning and coming to attention when all was in order.  
Andrew surveyed the line of five hundred men who were his, and the eighty men of O'Donald's command behind them. Every other time, it had been easy enough to explain what they were about to face; orders from above would tell him where the rebs were, and whether he was to hold or attack. There'd be a couple of comments about the honor of the regiment and the pride of being from Maine, and then they would move in.  
But this was different. He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The men started to look uneasily at each other.  
There was no brigadier above him now, nor regiments falling in to either flank. This time he was alone, just as at Gettysburg, and the decision was his.  
"Uncase the colors!" Andrew shouted.  
A stir went down the line as the standard-bearers lowered their staffs. Men to either side rushed out to pull off the flag casings. In the faint afternoon breeze the blue flag of Maine snapped out. It was followed seconds later by the shot-torn national standard; emblazoned upon its stripes in gold letters were the names of a dozen hard-fought actions which the regiment had survived with honor.  
The men looked to each other, some eagerly, others pale with nervousness; uncasing the colors usually meant action was in front of them.  
"Look to those colors, boys!" Andrew shouted, and as one each man's gaze turned to the standards they had followed across countless fields of action.  
Andrew knew it was a rhetorical flourish, but he had to start somewhere, and for the men of his regiment-of any regiment-the shot-torn flags were symbols of pride and honor.  
"There is a lot I cannot explain to you right now," Andrew continued. "All I ask is that you obey my commands. Just trust me, lads, as you have on every field of action. Follow my orders, and I'll see all of us through this."  
He fell silent. This wasn't the typical flag, Maine, and the Union speech. He sensed their uneasiness, but there wasn't time to explain further.  
"Companies C through F, deploy to the east wall. H through K, to the west wall. I want A and B, with the colors, in reserve in the center. Major O'Donald! To me, please! Now fall into position, boys!"  
The encampment became a wild explosion of movement as the formation broke and men ran to their positions.  
"What is it, colonel?" Pat said, coming up to join him.  
"Look, Pat, I can't explain the situation now- I still don't understand it myself. We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go up to your emplacement."  
The two commanders, trying to appear outwardly calm, strode aross the encampment area. They reached the battery where O'Donald's twelve-pound brass Napoleons were deployed.  
"Here they come!" came a shout from an excited private down the line.  
The two horseman crested the hill above the beach; they paused visibly as they saw the encampment with its battle-ready men at its walls below, then the older one in the green surcoat rode forward cautiously, one hand up with palm outward, the other on the reins on his horse as he guided it.  
"One of them coming up, sir," Hans said, now standing beside Andrew, which he always did when there was the scent of battle in the air.  
A loud murmur started to break out in the ranks, men crying out in confusion at the sight of the horseman before them.  
"You're the history professor," Emil said, coming up to join the three commanders, "so please help me retain my sanity and tell me who that is."  
"I was hoping you would know," Andrew replied. "We couldn't have been blown all the way to Arabia, and they look European, not black or eastern."  
"Well, what he's carrying looks straight out of the Middle Ages to me," Emil replied. "Damn it all, looks at those weapons and armor! Those things are museum pieces!"  
"I know, doctor," Andrew murmured, "I know."  
Just what in hell was he facing? He still couldn't figure it out. For all the world he felt as if he were facing a couple men straight out of the tenth or eleventh century.  
The horseman stopped well within arrow range of his companion and waited, arms folded across his chest.  
"Hans, just cock that carbine of yours and keep an eye on him."  
Andrew climbed atop the gun emplacement and slid down the other side. The horseman drew closer. This was like something straight out of a Sir Walter Scott novel, he thought. Andrew put up his own hand with palm out. The horseman returned the gesture and advanced until he was about ten feet from him, then stoppped, saying something that had to mean, "This is close enough." He studied Andrew and the encampment with frank curiosity.  
The soldier asked something in some foreign tongue.  
Confused, Andrew could only shake his head.  
The horseman frowned and tried what seemed to be another language.  
Andrew extended his right hand outward.  
"I am Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine Volunteers, of the United States Army."  
The native spread his hands and shrugged, then tried what seemed to be yet another language.  
There was something strangely familiar about the uniform and gear, Andrew thought. It was like an object barely discernable in a deep and shifting pool.  
Somehow he had to reach this man.  
"O'Donald, get out here! Hans! Emil! You too!"  
The horseman saw the three men clambering out of the gun emplacement, and reined his horse back a couple paces. But, following Andrew's example, they approached slowly with their hands up and palms out.  
O'Donald tried his smattering of Irish, Hans his German leftover from the old country and the few Comanche words from his time on the plains, and Emil his Magyar, Yiddish, and Hebrew. They even called out one of the Pennsylvanian Poles under O'Donald's command, and the soldier seemed to speak five or six himself, but they held none in common.  
The warrior finally grimaced in annoyance. He dismounted and patted the ground, waved his hand to encompass everything the eye could see. "Videssos," he said. He pointed at Andrew, then at the encampment from which he had come, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
Andrew frowned at the unfamiliar name, then, knowing the detailed answer hadn't exactly worked, Andrew decided on a more simplistic answer. "Yankees," he replied.  
The Videssian smiled and pointed at himself. "Neilos Tzimiskes."  
"I guess that's his name," Emil said softly.  
"Neilos Tzimiskes," Andrew echoed, gesturing questioningly back at the Videssian. He was sure he made a hash of the pronunciation.  
Tzimiskes smiled and gestured back to him. "Andrew Lawrence Keane," he replied. The others also gave their names, and Neilos had no easier time with "Hans Schuder."  
Tzimiskes unbuckled his swordbelt and laid it at his feet. There was a cry of alarm from the other horseman, but he silenced it with a couple of shouted sentences. He pointed to the sword, to himself, and to Andrew, and made a gesture of repugnance.  
"That's right, no need to fight," Andrew agreed, hoping his tone would be understood. Emil reached into his haversack and pulled out a bottle, uncorked it, and held it out to Tzimiskes.  
The Videssian nodded and grinned, shedding years as he did so. Before he drank, Tzimiskes spat on the ground, then lifted his arms and eyes to the sky, at the same time murmuring a prayer. He then drank a long swallow, and his eyes widened as he had a coughing fit and exclaimed in his own language. After a long moment, Tzimiskes looked at the bottle with considerable respect.  
"Gin," Emil said, pointing to the bottle, "and not your rotgut variety either."  
"Major darling, I've been feeling a bit of a chill meself," O'Donald said hopefully.  
"We all need a shot or two," Andrew said, and with a look of remorse, Emil gazed fondly at the bottle and handed it over to the artilleryman.  
"Gin," Tzimiskes replied thoughtfully, then patted himself apologetically and shouted to the younger Videssian. The other horseman approached, carrying a leather sack in his right hand.  
The young Videssian's name, they discovered, was Proklos Mouzalon. From his sack he brought out dried apples and figs, olives, smoked and salted pork, a hard yellow cheese, onions and hardtack-all normal fare for soldiers on the move. Andrew felt embarassed he could only offer hardtack and saltpork in return. But Mouzalon and Tzimiskes both chewed on the offered rations thoughtfully with the air of men who'd had worse.  
Mouzalon also produced a small flask of thick, sweet wine. Andrew sipped politely and passed the flask on to O'Donald.  
By signs, Neilos made it clear there was a town a couple of days' travel to the west, a convenient place to establish a market to feed the regiment and lodge them for the time being. He sent Mouzalon ahead to prepare the town for their arrival.  
Andrew frowned as Mouzalon disappeared from sight and as Tzimiskes accompanied the others towards the encampment. It took him a moment to notice that Emil still stood a pace behind him.  
"Just where in heaven are we?" Andrew asked.  
The doctor smiled sadly and shook his head.  
"I don't know how or why," he replied, his voice carrying a slight sense of awe. "But I think wherever our war is, it's not here."  
"Seems like something out of the tenth, maybe eleventh century, I'd venture," Andrew said, as if to himself. "But how, dammit? How?"  
Emil reached up and laid his hand on Andrew's shoulder.  
"That is not your concern, if I might be so bold," Emil said sharply.  
"And what does that mean?" Andrew replied, somewhat irritated by the doctor's tone.  
"Andrew, you're pondering an impossible. Chances are we'll never know the how of it, or the why. Your job now is to lead. To find a way for us to survive here. If an answer ever comes, we'll cross that then. But we can't stay here surrounded forever. For the time being we must find a place to live."  
Emil stopped for a moment, and with a smile reached into his tunic and pulled out a flask and offered it.  
Without comment Andrew uncorked it and took a long pull.  
"Somehow we've got to make an accomadation with these people. You no longer command a regiment-you're the general in charge, and a diplomat now as well."  
"So you're telling me to stop worrying and do my job, is that it?" Andrew said coldly.  
"Just that you historian types want to know all the answers," Emil responded with a chuckle.  
Andrew turned away for a moment. He knew that the doctor was right. The name of this country, Videssos, was utterly unfamiliar. And there was nowhere on earth that people spoke those languages or outside of southeast Asia wielded weapons like the ones the Videssians wielded.  
Just what was he going to do?  
"Worry about keeping us alive," Emil said softly as if reading his thoughts. "Let me spend my time figuring out the hows and whys of it all."  
Andrew turned back to the doctor and smiled.  
"Let's get the men to stand down for now. Then let's you and me sit down with Neilos," and capping the bottle he tossed it back to the doctor.

* * *

"All right then, boys, look sharp now, the colonel's expecting you to act like the soldiers you are. You men of Companies A and B have been selected for this-now live up to it."  
Vincent tried to push his narrow chest out even further as Sergeant Schuder stopped in front of him, gazed for a moment, and then with a snort of disgust continued down the line.  
Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason the colonel no longer terrified him-in many ways he looked on his one-armed commander as a father-but Schuder was more like the old schoolmaster at Oak Grove, ready to explode with Old Testament wrath at the slightest provocation.  
From the corner of his eye Vincent saw Keane approaching, with Dr. Weiss and Neilos Tzimiskes riding alongside and Major O'Donald walking in front of them.  
Keane reared his mount up in front of the company and looked the ranks over.  
"All right then, lads," Keane said softly, as if addressing a group of friends about to embark on an afternoon stroll.  
"Neilos here," and he pointed to the horseman beside him, "indicates we can make a peaceful arrangement with these people. I'm trusting all of you to do your duty. I want these people to see the type of soldiers we are. But one mistake and it could go badly for the lot of us. I expect this to go smoothly, and it's important we don't show the slightest trace of fear. So look and act like soldiers, no matter what you see. If things should turn ugly, you are to fire only on my command, or Sergeant Schuder's. Any questions?"  
"Colonel, just where in hell are we?" Vincent could tell by the defiant tone that it was Jim Hinsen.  
Keane reined his mount around and came up to stand directly in front of Hinsen. With a cold look, the colonel stared down at the private.  
"That is what we are going to find out, private," he said sharply. "Let me worry about that. You're new to this regiment, private, so I'll let it pass this time. But the veterans among you know that the 35th has always seen its way through, no matter what was put in front of us.  
"Now, are there any other questions?"  
The men were silent.  
"All right, then. Major O'Donald is senior in command until I return." As he spoke he looked over to where Captain Cromwell and his crew stood. Vincent instantly sensed that there was some conflict brewing there, the way the two men looked at each other.  
"Sergeant Major Schuder, get the men moving."  
Hans stalked down the length of the line, sparing a cold glance for Hinsen, to the head of the column.  
"Uncase the colors," Schuder roared, in his best parade-ground voice.  
The staffs were lowered for a moment and then raised up again, revealing the shot-torn national standard, and alongside it the dark-blue flag of Maine, snapping in the breeze.  
"Company, right face! Forward, march!"  
As one the hundred soldiers turned and started for the sally port. Andrew galloped down the length of the line, to fall in the lead, while a single caisson and field piece clattered into position at the end of the column.  
"Sergeant Dunlevy, if there's trouble," O'Donald shouted, "give 'em a whiff of double canister," and the artillerymen shouted lustily as they passed before their commander.  
The tiny column passed through the sally port and up across the beach into the trees.  
Vincent looked around nervously as they marched east along a narrow, twisting woods-path. Schuder had already told them that if there was trouble, they'd simply form a square and fight their way back, but it didn't do anything to make him feel any less nervous.  
"Musicians, give us a song. 'Marching Through Georgia.'"  
The single drummer rolled a flourish, and the fifer started the tune.  
"All right, you men, sing, damn you," Hans shouted.  
"Ring the old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song."  
Vincent fell into the step of the tune, a new favorite with the troops, even though it was about Billy Sherman's boys, and the column's step fell into a rythmic swing.  
"Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee-hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes men free."  
The column pushed on, "Marching Through Georgia" being replaced by "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and then for good measure "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  
The men sang with a will, as much to brace up their own courage as to impress the horseman riding with them.  
The march was soon into its second hour without a break, and the sweat coursed down Vincent's back. But the colonel would not call a halt, as if to show Tzimiskes the toughness of his men.  
The regiment soon got free of the forest and into the beginnings of settled country. For Vincent the view beyond was breathtaking if a bit strange. The terrain was made up of rolling hills and valleys; to the distant east real mountains loomed purple against the horizon. Farmhouses dotted the hillsides, as did flocks of sheep and goats.  
More than one farmer started driving his animals away from the road as soon as he caught sight of an armed column of unfamiliar aspect. Tzimiskes shouted reassurance at them, but most preferred to take no chances. Vincent frowned, unhappy that the farmers were so automatically distrustful.  
The narrow path they'd been marching on met a broad thoroughfare running due east. In the late afternoon they reached a low, solidly built stone building. At the eastern edge of its otherwise flat roof, a blue-painted wooden spire leaped into the air; it was topped by a gilded ball. Blue-robed men who had shaved their pates but kept full, bushy beards worked in the gardens surrounding the structure. They looked up in amazement as the regiment marched up the road, then hurried into nearby storehouses, returning with fresh-baked bread and pitchers of wine.  
At the head of the column Vincent saw Keane and Tzimiskes trying to communicate with one another; the latter spat on the ground and raised his arms and head as if to describe the building. Finally, the colonel called a ten-minute halt in ranks.  
Taking off his hat, Vincent accepted water from one of the blue-robed men with a grateful nod and looked around, admiring the view. It was a lovely peaceful spot, with the men moving among the soldiers of the regiment, offering food and drink.  
"They seem like monks," Vincent remarked.  
"You know, I think you're right," Bill Webster replied. Vincent looked over at the nearly bald private, whom Vincent found to be an intelligent pleasant fellow.  
"Maybe they're Christians then," Vincent said hopefully.  
"Could be," Webster replied, "but they have that gold ball where a cross would usually be."  
Vincent looked back up at the gilded ball, then pointed it out to one of the passing blue-robes.  
"Phos," the monk replied, and shot a suspicious glance at Vincent. Worried he had made some sort of mistake, Vincent dipped his head quickly to the Videssian monk in thanks. The monk, after a moment, nodded abruptly and moved on. Vincent breathed a silent sigh of relief.  
The brief rest passed all too quickly, and the column pushed on, leaving the monastery to Phos behind. There was little traffic on the road. A merchant, catching sight of the marching column as he topped a rise a half a mile east, promptly turned his packhorses round and fled.  
Vincent heard murmers among his comrades, who disliked seeing all the people fleeing before them.  
Late in the day Keane finally called a halt to the day's march. Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. They'd been marching hard, and the sweat-soaked wool trousers of his uniform were chafing his legs raw.  
Tzimiskes appeared pleased at the pace the regiment had been able to keep. He watched, fascinated, as they used the last sunshine and the purple twilight to pitch their tents and assigned the men for picket duty.  
When the sun dipped below the western horizon, Neilos went through his now-familiar series of actions, though his prayer was longer than the one he had made before.  
"I guess that explains the gold ball back at that monastery," Webster said.  
"It does?" Vincent asked.  
"Yeah. It must represent the sun, or the Phos that monk mentioned. Maybe these Videssians just worship the sun."  
"Damned barbarians," Hinsen muttered, and the others look at him with annoyance.  
A thin sliver of crescent moon slid down the sky and the stars shone brightly in a fine clear night. A wolf bayed in the distant hills, sending a shiver down Vincent's back.  
The day had been warm, but after sunset it grew chilly. The farmers amongst the enlisted men remarked that by the ripe state of the grainfields they had seen that it seemed as if it was autumn and close to harvest, though it had been winter when they left Virginia.  
As Vincent set up his bedroll, the mutters began to circulate among the camp. Curiously, Vincent looked over towards the men of Company B and noticed that a couple of former sailors were staring up at the sky. After he looked up himself, he finally understood.  
The stars were all wrong.

* * *

Andrew sat down hard on his camp chair. Exhausted, he tried to focus his attention on the men sitting with him. It seemed that all discipline in the regiment was near to breaking. He could hear Schuder roaring out commands, but still still there was the current of unease. Damn it all, he was terrified himself. There could only be one explanation to all this, but his mind recoiled at the enormity of it all.  
Somehow they were no longer on earth. What other explanation was possible at this point? But each time he tried to come to grips with the thought, he felt as if he wanted to crawl away, fall asleep, and pray that when he awoke he would either be dead from the storm or somehow back in the world he knew and could understand.  
The crack of a carbine snapped his thoughts back. The camp fell silent.  
"All right, you ignorant, whining, lazy bastards!" Schuder roared. "You're nothing but fresh fish, the whole damned lot of you. And I thought the 35th had men in it. You're crying like green boys being led to see the elephant. Now goddammit, act like men, or so help me I'll thrash the next man who so much as peeps, mit god I'll do it!"  
Andrew held his breath. The sergeant major was the most feared man in the regiment, and he could only hope the fear of Schuder would be greater than the unknown that confronted them.  
There were a couple of low murmurs.  
"I heard you, Fredricks, you little milksop, you whinny coward."  
There was a loud snap and a grunt of pain, and Andrew winced. He hoped his officers all had the good sense not to be looking; otherwise there'd be hell to pay for Schuder.  
"All right then, you bastards, we understand each other. Now back to your posts."  
Seconds later the tent flap opened and Schuder strode in and saluted.  
"The camp is back in order, sir."  
"I could hear that, Hans," Andrew said, suddenly realizing that Hans's little display had braced him back up as well.  
Bemused, Andrew looked up at the sky again. A chill ran along his spine as he stared at the meaningless patterns the stars scrawled across the sky. Where was the North Star? Where were the Dippers, Cassiopeia, Orion? Where were any of the other constellations?  
Shaking his head, Andrew literally brought his mind back to earth-though he winced when the figure of speech occurred to him.  
Turning to Emil, Andrew smiled wanly. "Have you figured out the hows and whys yet?"  
The assembled men chuckled, the tension easing a bit.  
"Before I'd been thinking a wild one that somehow we've crossed time," Emil replied, "but that's definitely not the case."  
"It's not earth," Andrew replied, "yet these people have names and customs that are somewhat familiar, but still different. So we have a mystery."  
The conversation paused for a moment, Schuder turning his attention back out to the camp.  
"You should have seen the expression on that Videssian's face when I fired my carbine, sir," he remarked, "I'd say he's never seen a gun before."  
"And by the way he reacted to the gin," Emil said. "he's never encountered distilled alcohol before either."  
"So we definitely have an advantage then," Andrew replied. "We'll have to take that into consideration when we negotiate with Neilos's superiors."  
For a moment, Andrew smiled. They were Mainers, and any man of sense knew that when it came to Yankee traders a Mainer could skin a man from Massachusetts or Connecticut coming and going.  
What remained to be seen was how they would stack up against Videssians.

* * *

The town's name was Imbros. It looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages, and in spite of their discipline the men could not help but voice their amazement. Though three or four ball-topped blue spires thrust their way into sight, its wall was high enough to conceal nearly everything within. The fortifications seemed sturdy enough, but while most of the gray stonework was old and weathered, much of the northern wall looked to have been recently rebuilt.  
Andrew by now knew that the local leaders wouldn't let any large numbers of his men into the town until they were convinced the regiment could be trusted.  
However, he had expected that Imbros would have readied a market outside the walls for regiment's use. The city was not shut up against a siege, but it wasn't looking to their arrival either.  
Andrew tried to get that across with the few Videssian words he'd picked up and gestures and Tzimiskes, a soldier himself, understood at once; he seemed puzzled and dismayed that the messenger he had sent ahead was being ignored.  
Mouzalon galloped out of east gate and was already talking as he rode up to Tzimiskes. The latter's answers, short at first, grew longer, louder, and angrier. The word or name "Vourtzes" came up frequently; when at last it was mentioned once too often, Tzimiskes spat in disgust.  
Andrew and Emil were trying to discover what the problem was when there was a stir by the gate, heralding the emergence of a procession.  
First came a fat man wearing a silver circlet on his balding head and a robe or maroon brocade. Parasol bearers flanked him on either side; they had to be for ceremony, as it was nearing dusk. Tzimiskes gave the fat man a venomous glance.  
"I'm guessing the one in the robe is Vourtzes," Emil whispered.  
Vourtzes, if it was him, was followed by four younger leaner men in less fancy robes. From their inkstained fingers and the nervous nearsighted stares they sent at the regiment, Andrew guessed they were the fat man's secretaries.  
With them came a pair of shaven-headed priests. One wore a simple robe of blue; the other, a thin-faced man with a graying beard and bright burning eyes, had a palm-wide circle of cloth-of-gold embroidered on the left breast of his own robe. The plain-robed priest swung a brass thurible that gave forth clouds of sweet, spicy smoke.  
On either side of the scribes and priests marched a squad of soldiers: big, fair, stolid-looking men in surcoats of scarlet and silver over chain mail. They carried pikes and throwing axes; their rectangular shields had various symbols painted on them. Andrew wondered who they were; they didn't look like any of the Videssians he had yet seen.  
Behind the soldiers came three trumpeters, three flute-players, and a man even fatter than Vourtzes pushing a kettledrum on a little wheeled cart.  
Vourtzes stopped half a dozen paces in front of the regiment. His honor-guard came to a halt with a last stomped step and a loud wordless shout. Trumpeters and flautists blew an elaborate flourish. The drummer smote his instrument with such vim that Andrew marvelled that its cart didn't collapse.  
When the fanfare stopped, the two Videssians with the 35th put their right hands over their hearts and bent their heads to the plump official who led the parade.  
Schuder stepped out from the ranks.  
"Company, attenshun! Present arms!"  
In unison the men of Companies A and B snapped to attention and brought their weapons to the present.  
Startled, Vourtzes gave back a pace. He glared at Andrew, who had to hide a smile.  
Andrew swung down from his mount, Dr. Weiss following his lead. He snapped to attention himself and saluted.  
"Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine," he said evenly.  
The Videssian official eyed him appraisingly, then gestured his priests forward. The older one pointed a bony finger at Andrew, rattling off what sounded like a series of questions. Andrew shook his head. The priest snapped a couple of queries at Tzimiskes.  
His reply must have been barely satisfactory, for the priest let out an audible sniff. But he shrugged and gave what looked like his blessings to the regiment, his censer-swinging comrade occasionally joining in his chanted prayer.  
The benediction seemed to complete a prologue the Videssians felt necessary. When the priests had gone back to their place by the scribes, the leader of the parade stepped up to clasp Andrew's hand. His own were plump, beringed, and sweaty; the smile he wore looked like the genial mask any competent politician could assume at will. Andrew forced a smile of his own.  
With patience and Tzimiskes' help, Keane learned this was indeed Rhadenos Vourtzes, _hypasteos_ of the city of Imbros-governor by appointment of the Emperor of Videssos. The Emperor's name, Andrew gathered, was Mavrikios, of the house of Gavras. He got the impression that Tzimiskes was loyal to Mavrikios, and that he did not think Vourtzes shared his loyalty.  
Why, Andrew struggled to ask, had the _hypasteos_ not begun to prepare his town for the arrival of the regiment?  
Vourtzes, when he understood, spread his hands regretfully. The news of their appearance had only come the day before. It was hard to believe in any case, as Vourtzes had no prior reports of any body of men crossing Videssos' border. And finally, the _hypasteos_ did not place much faith in the word of an _akrites_ , a name which seemed to apply to both Mouzalon and Tzimiskes.  
Young Proklos reddened with anger at that and set his hand on the hilt of his sword. But Vourtzes turned his smile to the soldier and calmed him with a couple of sentences. In this case, it seemed, he had been wrong; matters would be straightened out shortly.  
Without liking him, Andrew had to admire his gift with diplomacy. As for delivery on the promises, he would have to see.

* * *

That evening, Andrew called in Hans and Emil to discuss what the regiment should do next.  
"As far as I can understand, these people hire mercenaries," he said, "and they're used to dealing with bodies of foreign troops."  
"Don't know as I much like that idea, sir," Hans replied.  
Emil spread his hands and shrugged, said, "I don't see how much choice we have. Seems to me we're lucky they hire mercenaries in the first place or they would have attacked us straight off."  
Andrew nodded and stopped to think for a moment. Slowly, he said, "In spite of our rifles and artillery the Videssians have the advantage. If need be they could swarm over us, using their numbers against us.  
"We need time to repair the ship and gain our bearings. If at a later date things get too uncomfortable, we can always pack up and leave for some other place."  
He sighed and continued, "We have to come to some sort of an agreement, even if it means serving this emperor for now."  
The meeting broke up soon after. Tired as he was, thoughts and worries over their dealings with the Videssians kept Andrew awake half the night.

* * *

The market outside Imbros was established over the next couple of days. The quality of goods and food the locals offered was decent and, fortunately for the regiment, the rate of exchange was excellent. Most of the men had some coins or greenbacks on them which the Videssians honored, the latter if for no other reason than their value as curiosities coming from the mysterious Yankees.  
Gold and silver were already part of the Videssian economy, and a man lucky enough to have a handful of silver dollars or a gold twenty-dollar piece was considered to have a small fortune. Beyond money, other items the men owned were also accepted in exchange. An issue of _Harper's Illustrated Weekly_ had aroused considerable interest when a private pulled it out of his haversack and offered it in trade for heavier clothing for the coming winter. With that revelation the men had taken of late to cutting out pictures for trade.  
However, the 35th wasn't yet in the official service of Videssos. Vourtzes said he would fix that as soon as he could. He sent a messenger south to the capital with word of their arrival. Andrew noticed that Proklos Mouzalon disappeared about the same time. Tzimiskes stayed on with the regiment as an informal liaison despite Vourtzes' disapproval.  
Mouzalon's mission must have succeeded, because the imperial commissioner who came to Imbros ten days later to inspect the strange troops wasn't the kind of man to please Vourtzes. Instead of a bureaucrat, Nephon Khoumnos was a veteran warrior whose matter-of-fact competence and impatience with any kind of formality both pleased and alarmed Andrew.  
Khoumnos walked through the semipermanent camp the companies had set up outside Imbros' walls. He had nothing but admiration for the its good order, neatness and sensible sanitation, the latter the result of Dr. Weiss's efforts.  
When his inspection was done, he said to Andrew, "Hell's ice, man, where did you people spring from? You may know the tricks of the soldier's trade better than we do, you're no folk we've set eyes on before, and you appear along the coast without being sighted on the sea on that ship of yours. How does this happen?"  
Andrew knew that he and his officers had been spending most of what spare time they had worrying at that very question.  
He had also gained a very rough understanding of Videssian through study with Tzimiskes. It wasn't much, but he was beginning to understand.  
Keane had little hope of putting across how he, his men and their ship had been swept here, and even less hope of being believed. Yet he found he liked Khoumnos and, after some consideration, decided to try telling it to him. With Tzimiskes help, he explained as best he could and waited for the officer's disbelief.  
It did not come. Khoumnos drew the sun-sign on his breast. "Phos!" he muttered, naming his people's god. "That is a strong magic, friend Yankee; you must be a nation of mighty sorcerers."  
Andrew fought down a smile. Khoumnos had also been suitably impressed at the demonstration of their muskets decimating several propped up suits of armor and shields, and awed at the demonstration of the Napoleon destroying a wagon with a round of solid shot. Vourtzes, several dignitaries, and the priests the Yankees met when they first came to Imbros had also been present; they'd all made the circular motion that served for a Catholic making the sign of the Cross and the elder priest started shouting something until several bullets and the cannonball were retrieved; seeing they were ordinary iron and lead seemed to mollify them.  
When Andrew tried to deny Khoumnos' charge, the commissioner gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Then let it be your secret. That fat slug of a Vourtzes will treat you better if he thinks you may turn him into a newt if he crosses you."  
Soon, though, Andrew sat down with Khoumnos, with Tzimiskes at hand to help translate, to negotiate the terms that the regiment would take service with Videssos under.  
"I think, outlander, the Imperial Guards could have use for such as you," Khoumnos said, "I tell you straight out, with the accursed Yezda-may Skotos take them to hell!-sucking the blood from our westlands, we need men."  
Andrew nodded sagely, putting on a display of profound thinking. Finally, he said, "It sounds as if it might be acceptable, but there must be guarantees.  
"First, if we wish to leave, we must be free to do so."  
Khoumnos agreed to that term with no qualms; apparently it was common enough with mercenary companies in Videssian service.  
Andrew continued, "Second, we want whatever assistance you can provide in getting our ship afloat again."  
Raising an eyebrow, Khoumnos replied, "That one's a bit more tricksy. We don't usually allow mercenaries to approach the city with their own ships." By the slight emphasis he laid on "the", Andrew knew he meant the city of Videssos itself.  
"Still," Khoumnos continued, "you Yankees aren't exactly Gamblers, and it is just the one ship." He rubbed his chin. "I'll agree on the condition that we keep a galley as escort for it."  
Andrew considered; Khoumnos had already agreed on their freedom to leave if they wanted to, and battling a galley with a steamship with O'Donald's cannons on its deck if worse came to worse would be simple enough. Besides that, the thought of Tobias fuming over the condition was pleasant enough. He nodded his agreement.  
Khoumnos cocked an eye to the north. Dirty gray clouds were gathering there, harbingers of winter storms to come.  
"You'll have to move smartly if you want to get it afloat before the first storms roll in," he remarked.  
"Give us whatever assistance we need and we'll get it done," Andrew said, confident in the ability of his men.  
Khoumnos spread his hands, conceding the point, and asked, "Is that all?"  
Andrew fixed Khoumnos with his gaze before he replied.  
"We shall want our own land, on the sea."  
Khoumnos' eyebrows crawled up to his hairline when Tzimiskes hesitantly rendered the translation.  
"You don't think small, do you?" he remarked. Andrew waited patiently.  
Khoumnos' mouth twisted as he replied, "Only Mavrikios himself can ennoble a man and hand out estates.  
"And somehow," he continued, "I don't see him jumping at the idea." Khoumnos raised an eyebrow at the enormity of his own understatement.  
Andrew thought of a title of nobility only with distaste; the land, however, was another matter and he shook his head, stubborn.  
Khoumnos leaned forward in his seat, focusing his own gaze on Keane.  
"You can't expect the Emperor to freely give away land to every newly arrived mercenary captain that sets foot on Videssian soil, no matter how incredible their arrival."  
The imperial commissioner sat back again and continued, "You have only two options as I see it right now. You can either come to the city as Imperial Guards or be sent to our northern frontier on the Astris to keep an eye on the nomads on the steppe. And the latter," he added, "would be a waste of your talents."  
Khoumnos held up a hand to forestall any immediate response from Keane and continued, "I'll tell you that I recommend the city, friend Yankee. If you and your men perform well, and I daresay your weapons are another factor, the Emperor will look upon you with favor. Perhaps you'll even get that land you want.  
"On the Astris, however, your men and their weapons will be wasted. And," he continued, "the winters there are much harder to deal with."  
So that was it. Andrew shook his head, torn at the decision before him. Being from Maine, he was confident the 35th could handle cold weather.  
But that wasn't all of it. He didn't want to force his men into that sort of exile to the fringes of Videssos, or wandering the waters of this world on the _Ogunquit_ and dependent on Captain Tobias. Besides that, the Videssian capital promised more opportunities for the regiment to gain a better idea of this world and to establish their own place within it.  
Finally, reluctantly, Andrew agreed to join the Imperial Guards. For now, he thought.  
Khoumnos nodded, pleased at Keane's sense, and asked, "Would it suit you to wait until spring before you come to the city? That will give us time to be fully ready for you..."  
Andrew knew that repairing and refloating the _Ogunquit_ would take time, and winter was apparently fast approaching. They would have barely enough time to establish winter quarters at Imbros before winter set in in earnest. Besides, a peaceful winter would allow his men a full refit and recovery, and let them learn Videssos' ways and language without the pressure they would face in the capital.  
He agreed with Khoumnos' proposal and, when he departed back to the city, they were on good terms.  
Rhadenos Vourtzes, Andrew noted, was very polite and helpful the next couple days as they gathered what they needed for the _Ogunquit_. He was also anxious and spent much of the time near him looking back over his shoulder. Remembering Khoumnos' earlier comment regarding sorcery, Andrew smiled; he liked Nephon Khoumnos just fine.

So tell me, what do you readers think so far?

Years ago in high school I read the Lost Regiment series; then a couple years later I read the Videssos Cycle. When reading the latter I was struck by the similarities between two-not just the theme but the characters. Andrew Keane, for instance has much in common with Marcus Scaurus, Hans Schuder is an old war horse like Gaius Philippius, Pat O'Donald is a more seasoned and less impulsive version of Virodovix, and Emil Weiss and Gorgidias are two curmudgeonly, cynical, yet caring physicians. When I came upon GBW's fic on Alternate History Discussion I voraciously read it and was so disappointed when it wasn't finished. So I decided to give it a shot.

Send in your reviews. Comments and criticism are welcome, but civility is a must.


	3. Chapter 2

The Lost Regiment series and related characters are the property of William R. Forstchen; while the Videssos cycle and it's characters belong to Harry Turtledove. No money is being made from their use here so please don't sue-go sue someone else like Brian Michael Bendis for what he did to the Marvel Universe and is about to do to DC.

Chapter Two:

When they had finally gathered enough equipment and horses Andrew led Company B back to the site where the ship had come to rest, while Hans stayed behind with Company A to continue setting up their winter quarters outside of Imbros. With Mouzalon to guide them, retracing their march was easy enough.

As Andrew approached the battlement walls, he saw that O'Donald had used the time to make their position impregnable. The triangular fort was ringed by an earthen wall, as high as a man could reach, with an eight-foot deep ditch in front. There were platforms for the artillery, one for each corner. A sailor with Tobias's spyglass maintained a constant watch from the maintop of the ship.

O'Donald waited for him at the center of the fort, and helped him to dismount from Mercury.

"Welcome back, colonel darling," O'Donald greeted him, "is it an arrangement we're having with them then?"

In as few words as possible Andrew explained the agreement he had reached with Nephon Khoumnos. He couldn't blame the commander of the 44th for being dubious at first; he wasn't completely reconciled to the idea of being a personal guard for an emperor himself. But, in the end, Pat O'Donald trusted the judgement of the 35th's colonel and the regiment set to work on the _Ogunquit_.

Anything that could be moved was first stripped from the vessel. Tons of equipment for the North Carolina campaign had been stored belowdecks, and as the ship's manifest had been brought ashore Andrew found himself breathing an inner sigh of relief.

There were rations enough for six months, along with 150 spare Springfields, 300 smoothbore muskets from the Ogunquit's arsenal(that Tobias insisted he and his sailors keep),half a million rounds of rifle ammunition and two thousand rounds for the field pieces. There were thousands of yards of rope, hundreds of uniforms and shoes, lamps, coal oil, tents, shovels, picks, axes, medicine, including ether, and the myriad personal effects of six hundred men and one woman.

As the unloading progressed a Videssian galley approached from the south, two banks of long oars rising and falling in smooth unison. Even Andrew could tell the ship's rowers were a fine crew; indifferent to the wind, they drove her steadily north. Over the creak of oars in their locks and the slap of them in the sea came the bass roar of a song they used to keep their rhythm, all but incomprehensible with his rudimentary command of Videssian.

As the galley drew closer, they could clearly see the name painted in gold on the ship's bow in Videssian characters; Andrew later learned that it read _Corsair Breaker_. Her sharp bronze beak, greened by the sea, came in and out, in and out of view. There were white patches of barnacles on it and on those timbers usually below the waterline. A dart-throwing engine was on her foredeck, loaded and ready to shoot; the missile's steel head reflected the half-hearted sunlight of the overcast day.

"A bireme," Andrew said softly, and his features brightened. "Those ships were used throughout the Mediterranean for thousands of years. They were used right up into the 17th Century, and to a limited extent for some time after that."

Emil's advice from earlier came back to him. He had a job to do, even though the curiosity of it all was at times near overwhelming.

After initial greetings the _Corsair Breaker_ stayed mostly offshore, patrolling the waters near the steamer while the Yankees onshore continued their work.

When the entire burden was removed, cables were run to shore, the ship was finally keeled over, and the gaping hole near the bow repaired.

Next came the hard part, refloating the ship. Cables were run out through the bow and anchored firmly in deeper water. First the men tried to pull her off hooking the cables to the capstan, but even with sixty men the ship refused to budge.

Finally it turned into a massive engineering project under Tobias's direction. Pilings were sunk a hundred yards forward of the ship. Once a secure foundation was laid, a massive vertical windlass was secured on shore.

On the appointed day, several cables were run out from the ship to the heavy blocks attached to the pilings and then back to shore. Straining at the bars, nearly the entire regiment, joined by the half-dozen surviving mounts and over a dozen horses borrowed from Imbros, the men set to. For several long minutes the hundreds of men strained at the bars, cursing and swearing as the ship seemed glued. Then with an audible groan the vessel popped free, sending the men of the regiment sprawling to the ground even as they cheered lustily.

It took several days to reload the vessel from shore, and then finally after weeks of silence the boilers of the _Ogunquit_ were fired up, while the crew of the _Corsair Breaker_ watched in awed silence yet another miracle of the Yankees.

By his previous agreement with Khoumnos the _Ogunquit_ made ready to accompany the galley back south all the way to an island southeast of Videssos the city called simply 'The Key', there to winter in the harbor of Sykeota on its northern coast while the regiment wintered at Imbros. Supplies enough to last the regiment the winter were already loaded onto the wagons and packhorses borrowed from Vourtzes.

Tobias was as angered at the arrangement as Andrew had thought he would be, but it was tempered by the fact that his ship was finally afloat again; that, and he and Andrew wouldn't be seeing each other until spring would bring them both to Videssos the city.

The _Ogunquit_ steamed south, the pilot showing his exultation by repeated blasts on the whistle. The _Corsair Breaker_ kept pace with the transport, its oars rising and falling.

* * *

With mug raised, Houston, the youngest officer in the regiment, came to his feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a toast." As one the company came to their feet. "To the President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, on his fifty-sixth birthday. May he have good health, a long life, and four more years with a nation at peace."

"Abraham Lincoln," and the mugs were drained as some of the Videssians around them in the Imbros tavern watched curiously.

Smiling, Andrew nodded for the mugs to be refilled. It was no longer traditional brandy, what little that was left was being held in reserve by Emil. Instead they were drinking wine and ale, according to each person's taste.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Union. Wherever it is, may it endure forever."

There was a moment of silence, for such a toast could only invoke painful memories of home.

"The Union," and quietly the mugs were drained. Those assembled settled back in their seats.

"Gentlemen, I might regret this," O'Donald said evenly, and reaching into his haversack he produced a small box and opened it. There was a gasp of delight from around the table.

"Havana cigars, the finest, and maybe the last for this blessed group. Pass 'em around and enjoy them while you can. I've been a Republican since I stepped foot off the boat in '56, and Lincoln's my man, God bless 'im."

There was a shout of approval for O'Donald's sacrifice. Tobacco was so scarce that men were offering up to ten dollars in gold for a single plug. Even with a war on, there had always been trading across picket lines back home, but tobacco seemed to be unknown here. The pangs of withdrawal affected nearly every man in the ranks.

Leaning back, Andrew pulled out a match. He knew it was a waste of a good lucifer, but he went ahead anyhow and struck a light off his chair and soon had the tip of the cigar glowing a bright cherry red.

With a merry glance, Andrew watched Tzimiskes and Mouzalon out of the corner of his eye. The Videssians had seen the men smoke before and had seen matches as well, but by their own glances it was still strange.

"Try one, Neilos," Andrew said, offering the box to his translator.

"Thank you, colonel." To Andrew's chagrin, Tzimiskes was much quicker at picking up English than he was in remembering Videssian words.

Suppressing any trepidation, the cavalryman took a cigar out of the box, and imitating the other men he sniffed it first, the action drawing a round of smiles from the assembly. Biting off one end, he put the cigar in his mouth and, leaning over a candle, puffed the cigar into life. The table was silent.

Smiling, Tzimiskes pulled happily and inhaled. The coughing explosion that followed elicited a gale of laughter, which he took good-naturedly, while Mouzalon looked at him in surprise.

With watery eyes, Neilos drained off a mug of wine, and though he gamely kept the cigar alight, the puffs were with little enthusiasm.

"How do you Yankees find pleasure in this?" Tzimiskes asked, still gasping and looking slightly green for his effort.

"I wonder myself at times," Emil retorted. "Always had my suspicion the filthy habit can kill you."

"Gentlemen, I've been thinking," John Mina said, changing the subject. The captain of Company E was a small, dapper man with slick black hair and a small thin mustache that gave him the air of a riverboat gambler.

"Go on then," Andre prodded.

"Has anyone given a thought about how we're going to acquire gunpowder, lead for bullets, percussion caps, and other such things?"

"He's got a point sir," Tracy Houston, the diminutive captain of Company D, said, speaking from the other end of the table. Houston was only nineteen, and looked even younger thanks to a shock of unruly blond hair and a cloud of freckles that covered his face. But his features were a stark contradiction to a hardened officer who had won a commission in the field for gallantry during the Wilderness campaign.

"These Videssians must be expecting a war soon, or they wouldn't have been so quick to hire us on as mercenaries," the young captain continued. "Some hard fought battles and we'll run low on ammunition, and some of our equipment will wear and break down too."

"Not to mention how we'll have a reliable supply line if we campaign too far away from the sea and the Ogunquit," Mina added. "No railroads here."

Frowning, Andrew leaned back in his chair. They'd raised some points he'd been worried about himself. "The Videssians obviously mine and sell iron and other raw materials themselves."

Mina shook his head. "With all due respect," he said, nodding to the two Videssians present with them, "if the Videssians are using medieval methods of mining, to meet our own needs, these merchants would raise their prices drastically. More than we could possibly afford."

"Then what do you suggest?" Andrew asked.

"This is just a suggestion," Mina said uncomfortably. Andrew waved for him to continue, and Mina said, "Several of the boys in my company the zinc mines up on the edge of the White Mountains. I studied a bit of metallurgy myself at the state university. If we could somehow show the Videssians some better ways of mining…"

Bob Fletcher, the plug-shaped captain of Company G who also acted as the 35th's quartermaster, said, "You want to start teaching these things to the Empire of Videssos?" Just mentioning the name of the Videssian state undermined their main concern.

"Bob, you I know I care no more for emperors or nobles than you do. But listen," Mina said. "There's no way we could do all of this by ourselves. First off, all the land out there is owned by noble families or the Videssian government, from what I can gather. There's no way we could buy it all from them.

"Second, I don't think we'd have the manpower either. Not only would we have to wander around and look for likely sites for ores and minerals, we'd have to build the infrastructure to move them around. And besides, if we just have our men working on producing everything it would defeat the purpose of our being a working regiment since we'd have very few actual fighting men left."

There were mutters around the table, but Andrew could sense that largely there was reluctant agreement with Mina's points.

"I know how you all feel," Andrew finally said. "When we get to Videssos the city this spring, I'll request a special audience with the emperor Mavrikios. If he first sees what our weapons can do, I can explain to him what we need. If we work with Videssos, and help them increase their productivity, we'll be able to get what we need and help secure a place for ourselves here."

There were mutters here and there, but everyone ended up nodding in agreement, reluctant though it might be. Andrew glanced at Neilios and Proklos, who had been sitting and listening the whole time. He had no doubt that they had understood most of the conversation, and wouldreport what they heard to Nephon Khomenos-and to the Emperor himself. Keane let out a sigh, knowing he could only hope that Mavrikios Gavras would prove to be a reasonable man.

"Now there is other business to attend to," he said, changing the topic by main force, "Our winter quarters are basically completed. Therefore, starting tomorrow, I'm granting leave, starting with one company a day, so the men can go into Imbros."

"You think that wise, Andrew?" Emil asked.

"Why?"

"That place is a pestilence waiting to happen. I don't like the idea of the men coming in here. Won't surprise me if there's plague or some such thing just waiting to happen."

Andrew could well understand the argument. He had wrestled with it as well. But they were men. Morale was slipping badly. In the first weeks, mere survival and the freeing of the ship had kept them busy. But Hans had been keeping tabs, and morale was starting to take a serious shift.

Most were still badly frightened by the experience. Nearly a quarter of the command were married men, and from their ranks had been coming the loudest complaints for a desire to return home. He had to let the men out, to see this new world, to form friendships with the people and to just let off some steam. He could only hope that Emil could keep things under control if something did break out.

"I'm sorry, Emil, I've weighed the risk and it's one we'll have to take. The boys are tough. Just lecture them firmly about the water, and the disease. I'll have any man drunk up for a bucking and gagging."

"Who goes first, colonel darling?" O'Donald asked expectantly.

"Take half your battery," Andrew said. "Company A can go with you as well."

"And the ladies?"

Andrew turned in his seat to Kathleen.

"Well, ah, you see..."

"Colonel Keane," Kathleen said evenly, "I can take care of myself, thank you, and have no intention of staying prisoner in our camp."

"Mutiny," Emil mumbled, a smile lighting his features.

Flustered, Andrew searched for a reply, finally realizing that Kathleen's features were creased by the slightest of a bemused smile at the consternation of the usually self-assured officer before her.

"If you would allow me to be your escort tomorrow I would be honored," Andrew said quietly.

"I will consider it," Kathleen replied.

"Well, ah," and Andrew nervously cleared his throat, and lapsed into silence, a habit all his friends knew about when in the presence of a woman, and secretively they smiled at each other.

Andrew looked over at Emil, who was sitting beside Kathleen. The doctor left him dangling for long seconds. Finally Hans took pity and, clearing his throat, leaned over toward Andrew.

"If I might remind the colonel," he said evenly, "there is some business you must attend to."

"Yes, of course, sergeant," Andrew said with a sigh of relief, turning away from Kathleen's penetrating gaze. "A good evening to you, gentlemen. Don't let the party end on my account."

Standing, he left the table and stepped out into the fresh evening air. Andrew took a deep breath, the light chill helping to clear his head a bit. The pain had set in earlier in the day, and as usual he had borne it in silence. There was no use complaining anyhow. It was just an old reminder, and absently he rubbed his temples as he walked down the street towards the east gate. Taps would soon sound, and already the men would be settling in for the evening.

The chill was refreshing, a reminder of home. Tzimiskes had said that harvest time would soon be upon them. Funny-back home another month would show spring in Virginia. Perhaps the last spring for the war.

The war. How was it going? Strange, something that had been a part of his every waking moment for nearly three years was now an infinite distance away. Overhead the stars, so alien to what he had known, shone in all their glory.

"Think it's up there someplace?"

"Ah, Kathleen," Andrew said softly, turning to face her as she walked up beside him.

"A beautiful night, colonel."

"Please, just 'Andrew' is fine when we're alone."

"All right then, Andrew," she replied softly. "Tell me, do you think home is somewhere up there?" As she spoke she looked heavenward.

For a moment he looked at her with a sidelong glance. The starlight played across her features, giving her a soft radiant glow. He felt a tightening in his throat at the sight of her like this. For weeks he'd been so overwhelmed with business that the thought of her presence barely crossed his mind. This evening was the first time he'd truly noticed her again, and the memory of their first conversation had come back. And now she was alone beside him.

"Would you care to venture an opinion, Andrew?"

"I wish I could," Andrew replied awkwardly. "We had a telescope at the college. Dr. Vassar would invite me up on occasion and we'd look at the heavens. He believed the stars had worlds around them, perhaps the same as our own. But as to where home us..." He trailed off into silence.

"Well, I'd like to think that somewhere up there is home," Kathleen replied, her voice almost a whisper. "Maybe that star right over there," and she pointed vaguely to one section of the sky.

"And perhaps Vassar is looking here right now," Andrew said softly. "Perhaps looking and wondering what is happening here."

Kathleen looked at him and smiled.

"What empires are being dreamed tonight, beyond the starry heavens?" Andrew whispered.

"A touch of the poet in you, colonel. You surprise me-I thought you more the cold military type."

Andrew looked over at her and smiled, shrugging his shoulders in a self-deprecating manner. "Just a line I penned back in my student days."

Kathleen smiled softly and reached out to touch his hand. "Would you escort me back to my cabin?"

""But of course," and leading the way, Andrew walked out through the east gate, one of the sentries nodding a greeting as they passed.

As they started back into the camp, the sound of taps echoed out among the winter cabins, and the two stopped a moment and listened.

"Such a sad sound," Kathleen whispered as the last note drifted away with the breeze.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just strange that the army should play it to lull the men to sleep, and when they bury them as well," she replied, as they continued on their way.

"Fitting, perhaps. It always makes me think of Gettysburg. I remember the night before the battle hearing it played for the first time, as we settled down to sleep. And then for weeks after, while I was in the hospital, I heard it played over and over as the boys who died were buried up on the hill outside town. But it's a comfort somehow. It speaks of rest at the end of the day, and at the end of the strife, both for a day, and finally for a life."

"Such a melancholy turn to our conversation," Kathleen replied. "Or is it that our war has just marked you and me far too much, and haunts us with its presence?"

"But maybe it isn't our war anymore."

"You mean you think we'll never get back home."

Andrew looked over at her and smiled his thin sad smile. "Would that upset you so much, Miss Kathleen O'Reilly?"

"No, I don't think it would," she said evenly. "After all, my fiancé is gone."

Andrew looked over at her.

"We were engaged shortly before the war. He left for the army in '61, a three-month enlistment," she said softly. "He promised to be back, saying the war would be over before the summer was out and then we'd be married."

"And he never came back," Andrew whispered.

Kathleen nodded and turned away. Andrew reached out his hand, resting it lightly on her shoulder.

"Oh, I'm all right," she said, looking back and forcing a smile.

"And is that why you became a nurse, because of him?"

"I had to do something, and it seemed somehow fitting. Funny, I often wondered what I'd do when the fighting stopped, for it was a way of losing myself. Now maybe I'll never have to face that question. Perhaps this fate of ours has decided it for me."

Andrew could not help but smile. So she was more like him than he'd thought. The war, which in its horror repulsed him, had at the same time woven a spell about him. A grand undertaking of which he was a part had come at last to sweep him into its tide and carry him away. Try as he could, he had not been able to imagine returning to Bowdoin after the war, to a life as nothing more than a professor of history in a small college town. He had felt the strange grandeur of becoming lost in a vast undertaking, a knowing that he was a part of something beyond himself.

 _Could she understand that?_ he wondered.

Reaching her cabin, he walked with her to the door.

"I lost myself in it, Andrew, and I learned as well that never again would I ever risk the pain of seeing yet another love walk out the door with a promise of return. I've learned that at least," she said, a sad gentle smile lighting her features.

She turned away from him and opened the door. To his own surprise he reached out and took her hand so that she turned back to face him.

"Kathleen, I understand all of that. Perhaps someday I'll tell you of my reasons, my fear, as well. But for right now I would enjoy the honor of your allowing me to escort you into the town tomorrow." His voice tightened up with nervousness.

The slightest of smiles cross her features. "I would be honored, Colonel Keane, but I hope you understand what I've told you, and that you'll respect my feelings."

Andrew nodded lamely, his hand dropping away from hers.

With a quick curtsy she turned and stepped into her cabin.

For a long moment Andrew stood outside her door, feeling like a foolish schoolboy. Turning, he started back for his cabin, not even noticing that his headache had disappeared.

* * *

"Just fascinating," Kathleen exclaimed as they turned another corner and found themselves in a narrow street lined with shops devoted to leatherwork. The cries of the merchants dropped to a curious murmur at the sight of two Yankees approaching. Andrew was starting to realize that his having one arm was a source of curiosity for them.

For that matter his own curiosity had been aching as well, for in all his previous visits he had come straight to Vourtzes, taken care of the necessary business, and immediately ridden back to the encampment. For the first time since their arrival in this strange world he felt he was truly having a day off to explore, and to experience the company of a woman as well, something unknown to him since the start of the war.

There had never been time for such a thing before-at least, that had been his excuse before the war. In the company of women he had always found himself tongue-tied. Too self-conscious about his lanky frame, towering height, and decidedly bookish appearance, Andrew had found it near impossible to make such acquaintances. Well-intentioned friends had of course tried to help with introductions, but somehow they had never seemed to develop.

There had only been one woman of importance-Mary. It was the year before the war. Their courtship had been brief but passionate, with an engagement and promise of marriage in the spring of '61. He had believed in her more than anything else in the world, her every word never doubted, her promises of what would happen when they were married a thrill beyond imagining.

Only weeks before the wedding there came a night when he had planned to work on lessons, but unable to stop thinking about her, he had set off instead for a surprise visit to her home. He knew Mary's parents were away, but they trusted him and would not object to his being in the house with her alone. The front door was ajar, and with the mischievous intent of startling her he stepped in.

There came a sound from her bedroom, an all too unmistakable sound, gentle cries that until that moment he dreamed would only be shared with him alone. Though filled with loathing for stepping into that room, still he had to know-and then wished he had never done so, for the sight of her in bed with another still haunted him.

Three years later, in the spring of '64, a colonel from another regiment told him that their division commander had stated, "That book-learning professor from the 35th has ice in his veins and fire in his soul for a damn good fight. Damn me, I think he knows nothing of fear, and pain doesn't scare him."

Andrew smiled inwardly at the memory of that. Perhaps after all it was Mary who had made him such a good soldier, for he could be icy cold with nerve, and yet have a passion to turn to destruction when need be. He had come to learn that a happy man does not rush into war-it was only the youth filled with naiveté and those who had already been hurt beyond caring and wished somehow to escape their sad empty lives that joined with eager intent.

"Why do you look so sad, Andrew?"

"Oh nothing, Kathleen, nothing at all," he said quietly, trying not to look at her. Could she be touching him after all? he wondered. Could he ever trust another woman after what had happened? In his heart he doubted if he ever would.

"Just look at the beauty of this," she exclaimed, going over and picking up a finely wrought box for jewelry, its lid glowing with enamelwork portraying a bright youth, that reminded Andrew of Jesus being portrayed as the Good Shepherd, protecting a flock of sheep away from a wolf with midnight-black fur.

Andrew looked at the merchant and smiled, pointing to the box.

"Andrew, don't."

"Please-a little keepsake for giving me such a lovely day."

"I couldn't," she said shyly.

"But it's already been done." Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar and flipped it to the merchant, not bothering to haggle.

Excited with such an offer, the merchant bowed back, and carefully counted out some Videssian silvers and coppers in change.

The merchant then pointed to the box and the figure upon it. "Phos," he said.

"Phos?" Andrew replied, curiosity piqued.

Smiling, the merchant nodded as he held out the jewelry box to Kathleen, who, smiling, took it, while around them some Videssians exclaimed at the incredible sum in silver paid.

"I think you paid too much," Kathleen whispered.

"I made a friend there. By evening this whole street will know of the purchase and think better of us for it."

"And charge outrageous prices the next time we come shopping here."

"I think of diplomacy, you think of shopping."

"Call it being a practical single girl living on her own."

They continued down the street and, as they turned the next corner, two men from Company A strolled by, one of them with a woman, obviously of easy virtue, clinging to his arm. Instantly the men snapped to attention and saluted. Andrew looked at the young soldier with the girl; he nervously turned a deep shade of scarlet at the sight of Kathleen observing him thus.

"Enjoying the town?" Andrew asked.

"Yes sir," the two chorused.

"Well then, carry on, and stay out of trouble. Remember to be back at camp before dusk."

Without another word, Andrew strolled on, feeling slightly embarrassed for Kathleen. But he was surprised to hear her chuckle.

"I was tempted to ask the youngster if his mother would approve of his company, but I thought it'd be simply too cruel."

A bit shocked, Andrew looked over at her and was about to reply when a shout echoed down the street. "Colonel Keane!"

Looking up, Andrew saw Hawthorne running toward him. Out of breath, the boy stopped and saluted.

"There's trouble, sir. Major O'Donald and some of his boys got into a tavern brawl. A couple of our boys got busted up pretty bad, but one of theirs is dead, sir."

"Damn!"

"It's looking ugly, sir. The boys have barricaded themselves in the tavern. It's just down the street from the main market. The city garrison showed up. Soon as I heard what happened, I came looking for you, sir."

"Good work," Andrew replied. "A couple of the boys just went up the street. Tell them to catch up with me-I'm going back to take care of this. Rouse up anyone else you see and send them packing to me. Now move!"

Andrew grabbed hold of Kathleen's hand and at the run started back into the center of town. Within several blocks he started to hear the murmur of a crowd, until finally turning a corner into the plaza he was confronted by the sight of several Halogai, the blond northerners who made up Vourtzes' honor guard, and evidently much of the Emperor's as well.

"You stay here," Andrew commanded, looking at Kathleen.

"I'm going with you," she said defiantly. "Some of O'Donald's boys are hurt."

"I'm not taking you into that crowd."

"Stop being such a gentleman, Andrew Keane. Now let's go."

Andrew could not help but smile. Nearly a dozen men of Company A came filtering over to him from the edge of the plaza along with a group of O'Donald's command, obviously drunk and cast out from some other tavern in town.

"I want no shooting," Andrew snapped. "You artilleryman, keep those pistols holstered, and by God if one of you speaks a word I'll bust all of you straight into a month of latrine duty. Now let's go."

Near running to keep up, Kathleen followed Andrew across the plaza. She now saw him transformed, cold, determined, and yet somehow relishing the prospect of this challenge.

Even from outside of the building Andrew could see that the tavern was a wreck. The heavy wooden door was torn right off its hinges, lying in the street. Stepping into the gloomy interior, he saw O'Donald and half a dozen of his men standing in a cluster in the corner of the room. O'Donald had his sword out, and all the men stood with pistols drawn. The garrison commander, a one-eyed giant of a man named Skapti Modolf's son, stood in the middle of the room with a dozen of his fellow mercenaries, the rest of the tavern packed behind them with angry onlookers.

"All right, what the hell is going on here?" Andrew snapped sharply, stepping between the two groups.

As one, near every man in the tavern started shouting at once.

"Goddammit, everyone shut the hell up!" Andrew roared. His command seemed to need no translation, and the room fell silent.

Andrew looked at Tzimiskes, who stood to one side. "Neilos, tell me what happened."

"Keane. There was a fight, and a Videssian is dead," and he pointed to the bar, where a corpse was laid out, the side of his head bashed in, with blood still oozing slowly from his shattered nose and his ears.

"He smashed up James," O'Donald growled. "That man started it."

"Later, O'Donald," Andrew snapped, not bothering to look back at the major.

Tzimiskes pointed to two Videssians standing at the bar, one of them holding an obviously broken arm. The other one gestured toward O'Donald's men and started shouting.

"He claims O'Donald and his companions started a fight for no reason," Neilos stated. "The Yankee lying on the floor then hit Domentziolos, the dead man, with a broken chair leg."

Andrew looked back at O'Donald. "Well, what's your side?" he asked, a note of disgust edging his voice.

"It's a lie, colonel darling. We was having a nice sociable drink. I even stood those blackguards a round, I did. Then one of them tried to pick Jamie boy's pocket, and that after we'd stood 'em a drink! So Jamie punched him one. A beautiful blow it was, right to the jaw. Then that Domentziolos fellow was on him with a knife. Well, we all set to, trying to pull the thieving bastard back. Jamie got stuck, but by the saints he still had the strength to pick up a chair leg and send that devil sprawling. Well, we cleaned them out of here, and before you could shake a stick those fellows," and he gestured to the Halogai, "start to form outside."

Dammit, Andrew thought darkly. O'Donald was a regular lightning rod for trouble. He knew the major most likely wouldn't try to lie to him, but his reputation for trouble had been known in the division long before they had embarked.

"Well, it's a hell of a mess now," Andrew snarled, and walking over to their side he knelt down by James. Kathleen was working feverishly on him, trying to stanch the blood flowing from an ugly knife wound in his side. A froth of blood gurgled from the man's lips.

"How is he?"

Kathleen looked up at him. "They punctured his lung. I can't tell how bad the bleeding is inside. We've got to get him back to Dr. Weiss."

"All right, make a stretcher from one of those busted tables. Let's get him out of here."

As Andrew spoke the lean priest who had prayed at them when they first arrived at Imbros hurried into the tavern; several Videssians bowed low to him, and even Skapti Modolf's son nodded his respect. The priest took one look at Domentziolos on the bar and shook his head, then caught sight of the fallen Yankee and hurried over.

O'Donald's men growled as the Videssian approached, but Neilos hurried over and quickly gave out reassurances.

Kathleen looked at the priest with annoyance as he knelt beside James, all but pushing her aside. "Andrew, we don't have time for this. He needs to see Dr. Weiss as soon as possible."

As far as the Videssian priest was concerned, all the Yankees but James might have disappeared. The priest dug under the rags Kathleen had set to stop the blood, set his hands on either side of the wound. Andrew expected the artilleryman to shriek at the sudden pressure, but James stayed quiet. In fact he stopped his anguished moans and lay still. His eyes slid shut.

"What does he think he's doing to Jamie boy?" O'Donald demanded. "He-"

"Hush," Kathleen broke in. She had been watching the priest's face, saw the intense concentration build on it.

Andrew felt the skin on his arm prickling into goosebumps. He had the same sense of stumbling into the unknown that-he stiffened as the memory arose-that he'd felt when that dome collided with the ship in the tunnel of light.

He could feel the energy passing from the priest to James. O'Donald's soft whistle said he perceived it too.

"A flow of healing," Kathleen whispered. She was talking to herself, but her words gave a better name to what the priest was doing than anything Andrew could think of.

The Videssian lifted his hands. His face was pale; sweat ran down into his beard. James' eyes opened and, grunting, he began to sit up.

Kathleen gasped, and pulled away the rags the priest had disturbed. What they saw left them all speechless. The great scar in James' side was white and puckered, as if it had been there for five years.

"Did I smash the bugger?" James asked, wiping blood away from his mouth.

O'Donald and his companions made cross-signs and exclaimed over the miracle, helping James to his feet. Andrew and Kathleen could only continue to stare quietly, what they witnessed having smashed the rational approach they took to everything.

Skapti Modolf's son stepped forward and began speaking, and Tzimiskes listened carefully.

"He says the matter is not over, that a Videssian died by your mens' hand."

As shaken as he was by the healing, Andrew turned and looked straight at the Haloga and extended his hand in a gesture of exasperation. "Seems like those people started it," he said, going at once to the attack.

The tall Haloga fixed his wintry gaze on Keane and said, "Vourtzes is going to want your man for justice and money for the damage the tavern has taken."

"I will not leave my man here," Andrew said coldly. "Come now. You see those men. They're gutter sweepings. I know a band of cutthroats when I see them. One of those people tried to rob one of mine, then mine was knifed while defending himself."

Skapti Modolf's son turned his gaze to the two Videssians briefly, where Kathleen had set the broken bone of one's arm while the priest healed the flesh around it. He grunted and turned back to Andrew. "And the damages?"

"I will pay that now," Andrew said, and pulled the change from his earlier purchase out of his pocket.

The garrison commander held the money in his hand, weighed it meditatively, then nodded firmly. "It is good, Yankee."

Andrew nodded back and let the Haloga clasp his hand in both of his own, after his native custom.

The priest pulled away from the arm of the Videssian, now looking utterly exhausted. As he staggered towards the tavern door, Andrew walked over and took his hand, shaking it as he nodded his thanks. He could see the toll the miracles-magic?-he'd worked had taken on him.

Emil pulled his hands away from James' scar, then removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes as the artilleryman pulled his tunic back down.

The doctor put his glasses back on and looked at James, then back at Kathleen and Andrew. "A priest?" he demanded.

Andrew could only shrug his shoulders. Kathleen, shaking her head, said, "I don't know what more to tell you, Dr. Weiss. We all saw it. James had a stab wound with a punctured lung, then the Videssian priest put his hands on it, and..."

She fell silent. The scar spoke for itself.

"Impossible!" Emil boomed, throwing his hands up in the air. "I've spent a good portion of my life using the latest medical techniques as I learned them from Dr. Simmelweiss! I've worked and finally managed to save more lives than I lose, and you mean to tell me that this man's life was saved by magic from a priest?"

"Never got to thank him properly meself," James commented.

"Oh, shut up," Emil said. He sounded angry, not at James but at the world. What he had just seen and heard went against everything he had come to know. To have magic succeed where his best efforts had seen failures left him baffled, furious, and full of an awe he wouldn't admit to even himself.

Andrew stepped over and set a hand on Emil's shoulder. "Emil, you've done good work for the regiment. The men and I have sworn by you. These Videssians, whatever they are..." He shook his head.

"They know things we don't," Andrew finally admitted. It was a daunting thought. Since they had arrived in Videssos they had been impressing the natives with their muskets, their artillery, their steamship and other things. And now the shoe was on the other foot, and it pinched.

* * *

The autumn rains began only a few days after the last of the harvest was gathered in. One storm after another came blustering down from the north, lashing the last leaves from the trees, turning every road into an impassable trough of mud, and pointing out all the failures of the regiment's hasty carpentry. The soldiers cursed, dripped, and patched.

When the real cold came, the muddy ground froze rock-hard, only to be covered by a blanket of snow that lay in drifts taller than a man. Andrew and his officers spent every free moment studying Videssian-with Tzimiskes, with Vourtzes' scribes, and with the priests, who seemed surprised the Yankees wanted to learn to read their written language.

Skapti Modolf's son, the garrison commander, was also friendly enough after the tavern brawl and, like any good fighting man, interested in the newcomers' ways of doing things. With his single-minded concentration on the art of war, Andrew found in him a measure of a kindred spirit. Andrew had his men practice bayonet drill against the Hologa, and at first the big blond northerners were able to easily smash through them. Soon, however, the Yankees were able to hold their own, and even found the best way to deal with an armored opponent was to first sweep either at the helmet or feet with the butt end of their rifles then apply the bayonet while they were down.

Some weeks later Imbros, like the rest of the Empire of Videssos, celebrated the passing of the winter solstice and the turning of the sun to the north once more. Special prayers winged their way heavenward from the temples. Bonfires blazed on street corners; the townsfolk jumped over them for luck. There was a huge, disorderly hockey match on the surface of a frozen pond. Falling and sliding seemed as much a part of the game as trying to drive the ball through the goal.

A troupe of mimes performed at Imbros' central theater. Andrew saw he was far from the only man of the regiment there. They were something different, and the fact that they had no dialogue made them easier for the newcomers to understand.

Venders climbed up and down the aisles, crying their wares: good-luck charms, small roasted birds, cups of hot spiced wine, balls of snow sweetened with syrups, and many other things.

The skits were fast-paced and topical; a couple in particular stuck in Andrew's mind. One showed an impressive-looking man in a cloth-of-gold robe-the Emperor Mavrikios, Keane soon realized-as a farmer trying to keep a slouching nomad from running off with his sheep. The farmer-Emperor's task would have been much easier had he not had a cowardly son clinging to his arm and hindering his every move, a fat son in a robe of red brocade...

The other sketch was even less subtle. It involved the devastation of Imbros itself, as carried out by a group of men in blue outfits and led by a fellow who wore a red wig and had huge fiery muttonchops and walrus mustache glued to his face.

O'Donald was in the audience, along with James and a few more of his companions. Some of their faces were stormy, but O'Donald and James himself chuckled at the spectacle.

Andrew was startled as he felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see the angular prelate who had healed James in the tavern, and that he had later learned was named Apsimar.

"A fine amusement," he said. "I do not believe I have seen you or many of your men at our shrines. You have come from afar and must be unfamiliar with our faith. Now that you have learned something of our language and our ways, would it please you to discuss this matter with me?"

"Of course," Andrew lied. He could think of better things to do, but felt it was the least he could do after the way he had healed one of his men. But, as he walked with the hierarch through the frosty, winding streets of Imbros toward its chief temple, he was anything but anxious for a theological debate. The Videssians were in deadly earnest about their cult and harsh with those who did not share it.

They reached the doorway of Phos' sanctuary and walked in. The sweet savor of incense and a choir's clear tones greeted them at the entrance. Andrew was so bemused at the similarity to churches he had known that he hardly noticed the cleric who bowed as his ecclesiastical superior came in. "Phos with you, elder Apsimar, and you as well, outland friend."

A colonnade surrounded the circular worship area, at whose brightly lit center priests served the altar of Phos and led the faithful in their prayers. Apsimar stayed in the semi-darkness outside the colonnade. He led Andrew around a third of the circle, stopping at an elaborately carved door of dark, close-grained wood. Extracting a finger-long iron key from the pouch at his belt, he clicked the door open and stood aside to let the colonel precede him.

The small chamber was almost pitch-dark until Apsimar lit a candle. Then Andrew saw the clutter of volumes everywhere, and wondered how Apsimar could read by candlelight and have any sight left at his age, though the priest had given no sign of failing vision.

The room's walls were as crowded with religious images as its shelves were with books. The dominant theme was one of struggle: here a warrior in armor that gleamed with gold leaf felled his foe, whose mail was black as midnight; there, the same gold-clad figure drove its spear through the heart of a snarling black panther; elsewhere, the disc of the sun blazed through a roiling, sooty bank of fog.

Apsimar sat in a hard, straight chair behind his overloaded desk, waving Andrew to a more comfortable one in front of it. The priest leaned forward. He said, "Tell me, then, somewhat of your beliefs."

Unsure where to begin, Andrew began with the Old Testament and carried on into the New Testament. He went on to describe some of the various denominations and churches that had sprung up in the centuries since.

Apsimar nodded. "This is an excellent creed, both in its basic values and its ideas. I would say it's quite possible that the God you speak of is your peoples' definition of Phos, though this Satan is made too little of."

Andrew suppressed an urge to laugh. He'd heard Christian priests who boomed about hellfire and damnation, and that was a definitely a new interpretation.

Apsimar continued, "This Christ you speak of, he sounds as if he was a great saint and an even greater sorcerer. However, I will tell you the truth now." Andrew, despite the touch of pique he felt at having Jesus described thus, let himself get comfortable.

The Videssians, he learned, viewed the universe and everything in it as a conflict between two deities: Phos, whose nature was inherently good, and the evil Skotos. Light and darkness were their respective manifestations. "Thus the globe of the sun which tops our temples," Apsimar said, "for the sun is the most powerful source of light. Yet it is but a symbol, for Phos transcends its radiance as much as it outshines the candle between us."

Phos and Skotos warred not only in the physical world, but in the soul of every man. Each individual had to choose which he would serve, and on this choice rested his fate in the next world. Those who followed the good would gain an afterlife of bliss, while the wicked would fall into Skotos' clutches, to be tormented forever in unending ice.

Yet even the eternal happiness of the souls of the deserving might be threatened, should Skotos vanquish Phos in this world. Opinions over the possibility of this differed. Within the Empire of Videssos, it was orthodox to believe Phos would emerge victorious in the ultimate confrontation. Other sects, however, were less certain.

"I know you will be traveling to the city," Apsimar said. "You will be meeting many men of the east there; fall not into their misbelief." He went on to explain that, some eight hundred years before, nomadic barbarians known as the Khamorth flooded into what had been the eastern provinces of the Empire. After decades of warfare, devastation, and murder, two fairly stable Khamorth states, Khatrish and Thatagush, had emerged from the chaos, while to their north the Kingdom of Agder was still ruled by a house of Videssian stock.

Though something began nagging at the back of Andrew's mind, he listened on: the shock of the invasions had caused all these lands to slip into what Videssos called heresy. Their theologians, remembering the long night of destruction their lands had undergone, no longer saw Phos' victory as inevitable, but concluded that the struggle between good and evil was in perfect balance. "They claim this doctrine gives more scope to the freedom of the will." Apsimar sniffed. "In reality, it but makes Skotos as acceptable a lord as Phos. Is this a worthwhile goal?"

He gave Andrew no chance to reply, going on to describe the more subtle religious aberration which had arisen on the island Duchy of Namdalen in the past couple of centuries. Namdalen had escaped domination by the Khamorth, but fell instead, much later, to pirates from the Haloga country, who envied and aped the Videssian style of life even as they wrested away Videssian land.

"The fools were seeking a compromise between our views and the noxious notions which prevail in the east. They refuse to accept Phos' triumph as a certainty, yet maintain all men should act as if they felt it assured. This, a theology? Call it, rather, hypocrisy in religious garb!"

It followed with a certain grim logic that, as any error in belief gave strength to Skotos, those who deviated from the true faith-whatever that happened to be in any given area-could and should be brought into line, by force if necessary. Used to the firm separation of Church and State, which had been enacted to prevent spreading holy wars to the North America, Andrew found the militancy of the local religions alarming.

Having covered the main variants of his own faith, Apsimar spoke briefly and slightingly of others the Videssians knew. Of the beliefs of the Khamorth nomads still on the plains of Pardraya, the less said the better-they followed shamans and were little more than demon-worshipers. And their cousins who lived in Yezd were worse yet; Skotos was reverenced openly there, with horrid rites.

All in all, the Halogai were probably the best of the heathen. Even if incorrect, their beliefs inclined them to the side of Phos by fostering courage and justice. "Those they have in abundance," Apsimar allowed, "but at the cost of the light of the spirit, which comes only to those who follow Phos."

The barrage of names, places, and ideas left Andrew raising even more questions. He asked, "Do you have a map, so I can see where all these places are?"

"Of course," the priest said. Apsimar gestured toward one of the crowded bookshelves. Like a called puppy, a volume wriggled out from between its neighbors and floated through the air until it landed gently on his desk. He bent over it to find the page he wanted.

Andrew needed those few seconds to regain his composure. He took a silent deep breath to calm his hammering heart; the very effortlessness of that casual flick of the hand and what came after it impressed him in a way even the healing magic hadn't.

To Apsimar it was nothing. He turned the book towards the colonel. "We are here," he said, pointing. Squinting behind his glasses and leaning close to the map, Andrew made out the word "Imbros" beside a dot.

"My apologies," Apsimar said courteously. "Reading by candlelight can be difficult." He murmured a prayer, held his left hand over the map, and pearly light sprang from it, illuminating the parchment as well as a cloudy day.

This time Keane required a distinct effort of will to keep his face straight, though he felt a chill pass through him at yet another display of this effortless magic. It was no wonder eyestrain didn't trouble him, he thought.

As the shock faded, Andrew peered at the map, which appeared to be detailed enough. The lands it showed were utterly unfamiliar, the shape of the land alien, with several peninsulas upon which the eastern nations were based, and the Duchy of Namdalen the southeastern most country the map displayed.

The Empire of Videssos was the basic centerpiece of the map, with lands bordering Pardraya on the Astris River and the border of Khatrish; Thatagush, the Kingdom of Agder and the Haloga Land lay further north. To the west, beyond the knobby peninsula of the Videssian westlands lay Yezd, of which both Khoumnos and Apsimar had spoken ill of. In the far north was the vast land of Pardraya and, in the extreme northwest, the land of Shaumkhiil, of which Apsimar had neglected to mention.

Despite his curiosity though, reading the strange names of the countries, and those of the seas-the Sailor's Sea, the Northern Sea, the almost landlocked Videssian Sea which the _Ogunquit_ had arrived along the coast of, and the landlocked Mylasa Sea and Sea of Salt that bordered Yezd to the northeast and south respectively-drove home the unpalatable truth, in a way not even Apsimar's sorcery had. This was most definitely not earth; this was a world from which they could never go back.

His farewell to the priest was subdued. Once outside, he made for a tavern for a drink to steady him.

One thought, though, gave him hope: even with magic, the regiment still had their own advantages. Six hundred Yankees, especially with most of them from Maine, could go far.

* * *

Alright, here's the third part of my story. Sorry I took so long to update; I work two jobs and I've had issues with my computer.


	4. Chapter 3

The Lost Regiment Series and all related character belong to William R. Forstchen; the Videssos Cycle and related character belong to Harry Turtledove. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction so please don't sue me-go sue somebody who's actually got money.

Chapter 3:

After a last series of blizzards that tried to batter Imbros flat, winter sullenly left the stage to spring. Just as they had at the outset of fall, the Empire's roads became morasses. Andrew, anxious for word from the capital, grumbled about the slow communications of this world. What I wouldn't give for a telegraph line, he thought.

The tree's bare branches were beginning to clothe themselves in green when a mud-splattered messenger splashed his way up from the south. As Nephon Khoumnos had predicted, he bore in his leather message-pouch an order bidding the regiment to come to _the_ city, Videssos.

Vourtzes didn't pretend to be sorry to see the last of them. Though the Yankees had behaved well in Imbros-very well, for mercenary troops-it hadn't really been the fat governor's town since they arrived. For the most part they followed his wishes, but he was too used to giving orders to enjoy framing requests.

The preparations for readying the regiment from their winter quarters for the coming march consumed Andrew's every waking moment; wagons and horses were purchased with the regiment's rapidly diminishing funds to help move O'Donald's artillery, as well as all the leftover food and equipment they had brought from the ship, and bought from Imbros during the winter.

Finally the regiment was able to shake off the cobwebs of their winter quarters; the march to Videssos ended up being a pleasant, if warm, week's travel through gently rolling country planted in wheat, barley, olives, and grapevines.

The road to Videssos came down by the seaside about a day's journey north of the capital. Villages and towns, some of respectable size, sat athwart the highway at increasingly frequent intervals.

In the afternoon of the eighth day out of Imbros, Andrew finally caught sight of the city and reined his mount in, pausing to stare for a moment before urging Mercury forward again. As the column advanced, Andrew could hear the men exclaiming behind him.

Videssos owned a magnificent site. It occupied a triangle of land jutting out into a strait Tzimiskes called the Cattle-Crossing. The name was hardly a misnomer, either-the opposite shore was barely a mile away, its suburbs plain to the eye despite sea-haze. The closest of those suburbs, Andrew learned, was simply called "Across."

But with Videssos at which to marvel, the strait's far shore was lucky to get a glance. Surrounded on two sides by water, the capital's third, landward, boundary was warded by fortifications impressive enough to elicit a low whistle from Hans.

First came a deep ditch, easily fifty feet wide; behind it stood a crenelated breastwork. Overlooking that was the first wall proper, five times the height of a tall man, with square towers strategically sited every fifty to a hundred yards. A second wall, almost twice as high and built of even larger stones, paralleled this outwork at a distance of about fifty yards. The main wall's towers-not all of these were square; some were round, or even octagonal-were placed so that fire from them could cover what little ground those of the outwall missed.

Something finally clicked in Andrew's mind, and he exclaimed, "The Theodosian walls!"

Emil and Tzimiskes, who were riding alongside him, looked at him curiously. Andrew realized that now wasn't the time to bring up his revelation, but he did eye the city of Videssos with an even livelier interest.

The great walls didn't hide as much of the city as Imbros' fortifications had, for Videssos had seven hills. Keane could see buildings of wood, brick, and stucco like those in the latter town, but also some splendid structures of granite and multicolored marble. Many of those were surrounded by parks and orchards, making their pale stone shine the brighter. Scores of shining gilded domes topped Phos' temples throughout the city.

At the harbors, the beamy grainships that fed the capital shared dockspace with rakish galleys and trading vessels from every nation Videssos knew. There and elsewhere in the city, surging tides of people went about their business. Tiny in the distance, they seemed preoccupied with their own affairs and oblivious to the coming of the Yankees. It was an intimidating thought. Could his men make such a difference in the midst of so many?

When he commented on that, Emil observed, "Son, the Videssians wouldn't have taken us on if they didn't think we mattered." Andrew smiled briefly and nodded.

Tzimiskes led the regiment past the two first gates that opened into the city. He explained, "An honor guard will escort us into Videssos from the Silver Gate."

Andrew maintained his composure, but felt another stab of amazement on the inside. Silver Gate? Golden Gate? It couldn't be mere coincidence any more.

He was somewhat disappointed when he saw the Silver Gate itself, however. Its immense portals and spiked portcullis were of iron-faced wood; from their scars, they had seen a lot of combat. Over each wall's entryway hung a triumphant icon of Phos. While sturdy enough, they weren't as architecturally splendid as the Golden Gate he compared them to.

"Alright, damn you, straighten up," Schuder roared to the column. "Look sharp now, this is the capital."

As Tzimiskes had promised, the guard of honor was waiting, mounted, just inside the main wall. At its head was Nephon Khoumnos, who stepped up smiling to clasp Keane's hand. "Good to see you again," he said. "The march to your barracks is a couple of miles. I hope you don't mind us making a parade of it. It'll give the people something to talk about and get them used to the look of you as well."

"That's fine," Andrew said. He had expected something like this; the Videssians were inordinately fond of pomp and ceremony. His attention was only half on Khoumnos anyhow. The rest was directed to the troops the imperial officer led.

The three contingents of the honor guard seemed more concerned over watching each other than about the regiment. Khoumnos' personal contingent was a squadron of _akritai_ -businesslike Videssians cut in the mold of Tzimiskes or Mouzalon. They wanted to give the Yankees their full attention, but kept stealing quick looks to the right and left.

On their left was a band-Andrew rejected any word with a more orderly flavor than that-of nomads from the Pardrayan plains. Dark, stocky men with curly beards, they rode shaggy steppe ponies, wore breastplates of boiled leather and foxskin caps, and carried double-curved bows reinforced with horn. "Foot soldiers!" one said in accented Videssian. He spat to show his contempt. Andrew looked at him coldly until the nomad flushed and jerked his eyes away.

The colonel had a harder time deciding the origin of the escorting party's last group. They looked very much like the armored knights of the Middle Ages; they were big, solid men in heavy armor, mounted on horses nearly as big as Clydesdales, and armed with stout lances and longswords. They had something of the look of the Halogai to them, but about half their number had dark hair. They were the first clean-shaven men Andrew had seen. The only country that could have spawned them, he decided, was Namdalen. There Haloga overlords interbreeded with their once-Videssian subjects, from whom they had learned much.

Their leader was a rugged warrior of about thirty, whose dark eyes and tanned skin went oddly with his mane of wheat-colored hair. He rode forward to greet the regiment. "You look to have good men here," he said to Andrew, nodding a greeting. "I'm Hemond of Metepont, out of the Duchy." That confirmed Andrew's guess. Hemond went on, "Once you're settled in, look me up for a cup of wine. We can tell each other stories of our homes-yours, I hear, is a strange, distant land."

"I'd like that," Andrew said. The Namdalener seemed decent enough; his curiosity was friendly enough and only natural. All sorts of rumors about the regiment must have made the rounds in Videssos during the winter.

"Come on, come on, let's be off," Khoumnos said. "Hemond, your men for advance guard; the Khamorth will take the rear while we ride flank."

"Right you are." Hemond reined around and walked his horse back to his men, flipping the Videssian a lazy salute as he went. Khoumnos' sudden urgency bothered Andrew; he had been in no hurry a moment before. Could it be he didn't want the regiment friendly toward the Namdaleni? Politics already, he thought sourly.

A single Videssian with a huge voice led the procession from the walls of the city to the barracks. Every minute or so he bellowed, "Make way for the valiant Yankees, brave defenders of the Empire!" The thoroughfare down which they strode emptied in the twinkling of an eye; just as suddenly, crowds appeared on the sidewalks and in every intersection. Some people cheered the valiant Yankees, but more seemed to wonder who these strange-looking mercenaries were, while the largest number would have turned out for any parade, just to break up the monotony of the day.

The shot-torn national standard and the dark-blue flag of Maine flying before them, the men marched west; drums rolling, the men sounded off with "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." They passed through two large, open squares, by a marketplace whose customers scarcely looked up to notice them, and past monuments, columns, and statues commemorating long-past triumphs and Emperors.

Finally, they traversed a last forum, larger than either of the previous two, and passed by a tremendous oval amphitheater before entering a district of elegant buildings set among wide expanses of close-cropped emerald lawn and tastefully trimmed shrubs and vines.

"Another few moments and I'll show you to your barracks," Khoumnos said.

"Here?" Andrew asked, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Khoumnos, surprised himself, said, "Why, where else would a unit of the Imperial Guards lodge, but in the Imperial Palaces?"

* * *

The buildings devoted to the Emperors of Videssos made up a vast, sprawling complex which itself comprised one of the imperial capital's many quarters. The regiment was billeted some distance from the Emperor's residence proper, in two stuccoed barracks halls set among citrus trees fragrant with flowers.

"I've had worse," Hans remarked as he laid his bedroll on his fresh straw pallet.

The barracks were airy, well lit, and roomy. There were baths nearby, and the kitchens were well-equipped. The lack of privacy was the downside, and Andrew spared a moment to worry about accommodations for Kathleen.

Cornets suddenly blared while the men were still stowing their possessions. A plump functionary appeared in the doorway and bawled, "His Highness the Sevastos Vardanes Sphrantzes! His Majesty the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras! All abase themselves for his Imperial Majesty, the Avtokrator of the Videssians, Mavrikios Gavras!"

The cornets rang out again. Over them Hans roared, "Regiment, attenshun!" The soldiers snapped to attention.

Preceded by a dozen Halogai, the rulers of the Empire came into the barracks hall to examine their new warriors. Before they set foot inside, Andrew glanced at their guardsmen, and was favorably impressed. For all the gilding on their cuirasses, for all the delicate inlaywork ornamenting their axes, these were fighting men. Their eyes, cold as ice, raked the barracks for anything untoward. Only when he was satisfied did their leader signal his charges it was safe to enter.

As they did so, Tzimiskes went to his knees and then to his belly in the proskynesis all Videssians granted their sovereign. Andrew, and his men after his example, held to their stiff brace. Seeing Tzimiskes prostrate on the floor roused only contempt and disgust in Andrew, though he knew Neilos was only following his own customs.

The Haloga captain stared at Andrew, his face full of winter. But now the colonel had no time to try to face him down, for his attention was shifted on the triumvirate in the doorway.

First through it, if they were coming in the order announced, was Vardanes Sphrantzes, whose title of Sevastos was about that of Secretary of State. Heavyset rather than fat, he wore his gem-encrusted robes of office with a dandy's elegance. A thin line of beard framed his round, ruddy face. His eyes narrowed when he saw the Yankees still on their feet.

He turned to say something to the Emperor, but was brushed aside by Mavrikios' younger brother, the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras. In his late thirties, the Sevastokrator looked as if he would be more at home in mail than the silks and cloth-of-gold he had on. His hair and beard were carelessly trimmed; the sword at his side was no ceremonial weapon, but a much-used saber in a sheath of plain leather.

His reaction to the sight of the standing Yankees was outrage. His bellowed, "Who in Phos' holy name do these baseborn outland whoresons think they are?" cut across Sphrantzes' more measured protest: "Your Majesty, these foreigners fail to observe proper solemnity..."

Both men stopped in confusion; Andrew had the impression they had not agreed on anything in years. From behind them he heard the Emperor's voice for the first time: "If the two of you will get out of my way, I'll see these monsters for myself." And with that mild comment the Avtokrator of the Videssians came in to survey his newest troop of mercenaries.

He was plainly Thorisin's brother; Andrew spared a pain-filled moment remembering Johnnie. They shared the same long face, the same strong-arched nose, even the same brown hair that thinned at the temples. But at first glance he would have guessed Mavrikios Gavras fifteen years older than his brother. Lines bracketed his forceful mouth and creased his forehead; his eyes were those of a man who slept very little.

A second look told Keane much of the apparent difference in age between the two Gavrai was, instead, the mark of responsibility's heavy weight; Andrew recognized it from views he'd had of Lincoln as the years of the war had progressed. Mavrikios might once have shared Thorisin's quick temper and headlong dash, but in him they were tempered by a knowledge of the cost of error.

As the Emperor approached, Tzimiskes rose to stand beside Andrew, ready to help interpret. But Mavrikios' question was direct enough for Keane to understand: "Why did you not make your obeisance before me?"

Andrew felt instinctively that this was a man you told the truth. He said evenly, "In America, my land, we do not bend the knee before any man."

The Avtokrator's eye roved over the Yankees as he considered Keane's reply. His gaze stopped on the weathered features of Hans; the old man's eyes of a soldier in his early twenties; on O'Donald, who stood out because of his red hair, unknown among the Videssians, and battered features from past brawls.

At last he turned to the waiting Sevastos and Sevastokrator, saying quietly, "These are soldiers." To Thorisin Gavras that seemed to explain everything. He relaxed at once, as did the Haloga guardsmen. If their overlord was willing to let these outlanders keep their rude habits, that was enough for them.

The Emperor continued, "Nephon Khoumnos has given me reports of what your _rifles_ and _cannons,_ ' he said the English words carefully, as if they tasted strange in his mouth, "can do. If it were anyone but him, I would have dismissed them as wineshop tales. But I have known Khoumnos and fought beside him for many years; if he says something even if he has been drinking too much, then it must be so. You and your men will be required to give a demonstration of both tomorrow on the practice grounds outside the city walls." Andrew nodded; he expected this. "I also hear that ship of yours is also expected to arrive at the harbor tomorrow-and those reports I also would find hard to believe, if I did not know well the man who reported them."

Again, Thorisin and the Haloga simply nodded. Sphrantzes, on the other hand, opened his mouth for further protest before he realized it would do no good. His eyes locked resentfully with Andrew's, and the colonel stared back. Sphrantzes' eyes narrowed dangerously, and Keane knew he had made an enemy. This was a man who couldn't stand to be wrong or, more to the point, to be seen to be wrong. If he made a mistake, he would bury it...and maybe its witnesses too.

He covered his slip adroitly, though, nodding to Andrew in a friendly way and saying, "At sunset tomorrow evening we have tentatively scheduled a banquet in the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, in honor of your arrival. Would it be convenient for you and a small party of your officers to join us then?"

"Of course," Andrew replied. The Sevastos' smile had enough of a predatory edge to make Andrew resolve to be wary.

* * *

After the Emperor and his entourage left the barracks, Hans Schuder muttered to Andrew, "You know what I'd like to borrow for that banquet?" After Andrew shook his head, Hans continued "That Mavrikios's food taster if he has one. And he probably does, if he eats in the company of that Sphrantzes fellow."

That evening Andrew sat at a table within one of the barracks halls with Emil, unable to contain his revelation anymore.

"Those walls are similar to the Theodosian walls, and the Silver Gate instead of the Golden Gate!" he exclaimed. "Come to think of it, some of this Videssian has sounded vaguely like Greek too, and the politics certainly seem the same. The religion is different, the magic threw me, and the language is sufficiently different that it didn't hit me until we approached Videssos."

"What _are_ you talking about, Andrew?" Emil asked.

"Byzantines," he replied. "Videssos is remarkably similar to Constantinople, their capital. And the barbarians overrunning the eastern portion of their empire? That's similar to the fall of the Western Roman Empire that left the Eastern Empire, later called Byzantium, relatively intact."

"So these Videssians are Byzantines, transplanted here the same way we were?"

Andrew considered a moment, and then shook his head. "No, the styles and culture are similar, but I can't see how any transplanted Byzantines could change their language and especially their religion so radically from what they were before. From the map I saw, if you allow for differences in the geography, the land is reversed west to east.

"It's almost like," he continued, "this is some sort of distorted mirror world to the old Byzantine Empire on earth."

"Okay," Emil replied reasonably. "How does this help us then?"

Andrew looked briefly shame-faced. "Well, ah, not too much at the moment, actually."

Emil chuckled, saying, "You historians," while shaking his head.

Andrew smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, I get your point. Let's get some rest-it looks as if it will be a busy day tomorrow."

A high-pitched shriek rent the air. Falling in with his officers, the imperial dignitaries, and their Halogai guardsmen walking by, Andrew climbed the steps of Videssos' sea wall and looked out over the Cattle-Crossing.

* * *

Hundreds of Videssians lined the seawall shouting with wonder at the sight of a ship moving without oars, its masts bare-poled. Earlier that day the regiment had given the demonstration of what their rifle-muskets and O'Donald's cannons could do, putting several sickly donkeys and horses out of their misery and destroying a number of broken wagons and propped up suits of armor. The outer walls had been lined with city folk wanting to see what was causing the loud noises, and no doubt many of those same people were now at the harbor, witnessing another miracle of these mysterious Yankees.

Coming from the south the _Ogunquit_ was now in view. The ship moved briskly, leaving the unfortunate _Corsair Breaker_ trailing behind it, smoke pouring from its single stack.

Bare of sails, that is. The vessel was decked out with all its signal flags upon the bare poles of the masts, so that it appeared ready for a festival. Tobias was on its deck, he and the men of his command turned out in their best dress blues.

Tzimiskes, wide-eyed, came up to Emil. "How does your ship do that?" he exclaimed.

"Ah, it's not magic, my friend, just a machine, like the other machines I told you about."

"You Yankees and your machines," Neilos mumbled, shaking his head in awe.

A jet of steam escaped from the ship, and a second later the sound of the high-pitched whistle echoed over the city again.

"Tobias will be insufferable now," Emil said, coming up to Andrew's side.

Passing the harbor of Kontoskalion on the south facing coast of Videssos, the _Ogunquit_ raced down the length of the city. Dozens of wharfs lined the larger Neorhesian harbor on the north shore, and Tobias steered the _Ogunquit_ toward the longest, which projected far into the water.

Ropes snaked out and were quickly secured to the pilings, and with a rattling crash the anchor dropped free for added insurance. The crew below damped down the boilers and a heavy vent of steam lashed out, sending the Videssians on the dock racing backward, while for good measure the ship gave out repeated blasts to the whistle.

Andrew turned to see Kathleen not too much further along the sea wall. He walked over to her and, as she turned to face him, she smiled wanly.

"I'll be glad when he's finished with that thing," Kathleen mumbled. "Almost drove me mad," and Andrew smiled in agreement.

"I'm required to be the Emperor's guest for a banquet," Andrew said. "Would you care to join me?"

Kathleen looked and Andrew and smiled sadly.

"Are you merely asking me to be your escort for a state function, or is there more to it, Colonel Keane?"

Taken aback at her directness, Andrew hesitated. He found himself fascinated by the sad gentle smile lighting her features. There was a tightening in his throat at the sight of her, but in a moment his normal rigidity returned, for he could see the barrier she was again putting up about herself.

"Either way you wish it," he finally replied.

At the Neorhesian harbor the gangplank rattled down, and Tobias strolled down it first, came up to Mavrikios, and saluted.

"Best be going," Andrew said nervously, extending his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes as if searching for something.

"Don't get too close to me, Andrew," she whispered. "I can't allow that to ever happen." She took his hand, and together they walked down the sea wall's stairs and on into the city.

* * *

The Hall of Nineteen Couches was a square building of green-veined marble not far from the actual living quarters of the imperial family. There had been no couches in it for generations, Andrew learned, but it kept its name regardless. It was the largest and most often used of the palace compound's several reception halls.

When Keane and his companions-Kathleen, Emil, O'Donald, Tobias and the captains of the various companies, along with Tzimiskes-came to the Hall's double doors of polished bronze and announced themselves, a servitor bowed and flung the doors wide, crying, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Yankees!" There was a polite spatter of applause from the guests already present.

The Videssian custom was to talk, nibble, and drink for a time before settling down to serious eating. Andrew took a chilled cup of wine from the bed of snow on which it rested, and handed it to Kathleen before retrieving another cup for himself.

He soon became aware that four different groups were present, each largely-and sometimes pointedly-ignoring the other three.

In the corner by the kitchens, civil servants, gorgeous in their bright robes and colorful tunics, munched hors d'oeuvres as they discussed the fine art of government by guile.

Then sent supercilious glances toward the crowd of army officers who held the center of the hall like a city they had stormed. Though these sprang from several nations, they, too, had a common craft. Their shoptalk was louder and more pungent than that of the bureaucrats, whose sneers they returned. "Plague-taken pen-pushers," Andrew heard a young Videssian mutter to a Haloga clutching a mug of mead almost as big as his head. Already half-drunk, the northerner nodded solemnly.

O'Donald and a few of the captains vanished into this group. O'Donald traded stories with a mixed group of Videssians, Namdaleni, and Halogai. John Mina, Captain of Company A, and Nephon Khoumnos were talking about drill fields and training techniques. The other captains were spread around, including one who was trying to persuade a buckskin-clad Khamorth that the regiment's rifled muskets could outrange their horn-reinforced bows. The nomad, belonging to some of the best archers of this world, seemed dubious and half-convinced he'd lost his mind.

If the councilors were peacocks and the soldiers hawks, then the ambassadors and envoys of foreign lands who made up the third contingent were birds of various feathers. Squat, bushy-bearded Khamorth wore the wolfskin jackets and leather trousers of the plains mingled with a couple of other, more distant, plainsmen whose features amazed Andrew by appearing to be similar to those of easterners on earth: slim, swarthy, flat-faced men with draggling mustaches and thin, wispy beards. He learned they were known as Arshaum.

Andrew recognized desert nomads from the southwest, and more from the distant lands across the Sailor's Sea; as the Arshaum resembled the men of the Far East, these nomads tended to resemble the men of Arabia. There were several envoys in strange costumes from the valleys of Erzerum, north and west from Videssos' western borders. There were Haloga princelings, and one man Andrew would have guessed a Videssian but for his northern clothing and the perpetually grim expression he had come to associate with the Halogai.

A giant in the swirling robes of the desert was so swathed even his face was obscured. He sipped wine through a straw and moved in a circle of silence, for even his fellow ambassadors gave him a wide berth. Andrew understood when he found out the man was an emissary out of Mashiz, the capital of Videssos' deadly western foe, Yezd.

Emil was approached, and was soon in an earnest conversation with, a rabbity little man who would have made a perfect Videssian ribbon clerk if he hadn't affected the unkempt facial foliage of the Khamorth.

The rest of his captains maintained a small circle of their own, while Tobias stood to one side, engaged in half-hearted conversation with a man who had a rawboned look to him, his face lined and tanned by the sun, his hair and beard too gray to show much of their own sun bleaching. Andrew later discovered that he was the drungarios of the Videssian fleet, a man named Taron Leimmokheir.

He turned his head at the sound of excited comments to his left, and discovered that Kathleen had garnered the curiosity of the last group at the banquet: its women. Her hoop-skirted dress drew the interest. The nurse showed a gentle understanding, allowing the curious women to touch the crinoline dress and exclaim over the fabric. Kathleen looked back at Andrew and smiled, looking slightly overwhelmed at the attention.

Keane returned the smile, and was soon swept into polite small talk for a minute here and two more there. After a bit, he drifted over to get more wine. He had just taken it when a voice behind him asked, "The music is very fine, don't you think?"

"Hmm?" Andrew turned, and was cast into confusion. The woman standing before him was as tall as many of the men there. She wore her straight black hair bobbed just above the shoulder, a far simpler style than the elaborate piles of curls most of the women preferred, but one that suited her. Her eyes were very blue. Her gown was a darker shade of the same color, with a bodice of white lace and wide, fur-trimmed sleeves. "Well, ah, yes, I suppose so."

"You Yankees are from quite far away, it's said. Tell me, is your homeland's music much like what's played here?"

Nervous as he always was around women, Andrew needed a moment to steel himself before he replied, "Somewhat, yes, Miss-?"

"Oh, I crave your pardon," she said, smiling. "My name is Helvis. You are called Andrew, is that right?"

Andrew nodded, and took a long drink from his cup. He wasn't used to being approached openly like this.

Helvis smiled again, asked, "In what ways do your music and ours differ?"

Andrew relaxed slightly; she seemed fixated on the one topic, and curiosity was something he could readily understand. However his vocabulary, while adequate for more common conversation, had huge holes when it came to matters musical.

At last he said, "We play-" He pantomimed the playing of a drum as best he could with one hand.

Helvis named it for him. "We have instruments of that kind, too. What else?"

At that point Kathleen had managed to disengage herself from the crowd of women that had surrounded her, and headed over at the curious sight of the colonel conversing with a woman. "Hello," she said as she approached, "who is this?"

"Oh, Kathleen," Andrew replied, momentarily embarrassed that he hadn't seen her approach. He'd gotten caught up in the conversation despite himself, his professor's side emerging. "This is Helvis. Helvis, this is Miss Kathleen O'Reilly."

The two women exchanged greetings, but Helvis didn't remain distracted long. "Do your people have the clavichord?"

"They're two days in the city, darling, and you're tormenting them about the clavichord?" The guards' officer Hemond came up to put his arm round Helvis' waist with a casual familiarity that said they had been together for years. Both Andrew and Kathleen noted that wistfully.

"I wasn't being tormented," Keane said, but Hemond dismissed his protest with a snort.

"Don't tell me that, my friend. If you let this one carry on about music, you'll never get your ears back. Come on, love," he said to Helvis, "you have to try the fried prawns. Incredible!" He was licking his lips as they walked off together.

Andrew and Kathleen stood together a moment in awkward silence. "They seemed nice," the colonel ventured.

"Yes, they make a happy couple," Kathleen replied. She gazed after Hemond and Helvis with an expression filled with sadness.

Andrew instead watched Kathleen. He could well understand her expression, and once more felt himself both drawn to her, and simultaneously feeling the shell reform around him. Can I ever trust again?

Sphrantzes the Sevastos came in a few minutes later. As if his arrival was a signal-and it probably was-servants leaped forward to remove the tables of hors d'oeuvres and wine, substituting long dining tables and gilded straight-backed chairs.

They worked with practiced efficiency and had just finished putting out the last place setting when the doorman cried, "His Majesty the Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras and his lady, Komitta Rhangavve! Her Majesty the Princess Alypia Gavra!" Then, in the place of honor, "His Imperial Majesty, Avtokrator of the Videssians, Mavrikios Gavras!"

Andrew expected the entire room to drop to the floor and readied himself to shock everyone in it. But as the occasion was social rather than formal, the men in the hall merely bowed from the wait while the women dropped curtsies to the Emperor.

Thorisin Gavras' companion was an olive-skinned beauty with flashing black eyes, well matched to the hot-blooded Sevastokrator. She quite outshone the Princess Alypia, Mavrikios' only surviving child by a long-dead wife. Her lineage was likely the reason Alypia was still unwed-she was a political card too valuable to play at once. She was not unattractive, with an oval face and eyes of clear green, rare among the Videssians. But her attention appeared directed inward, and she walked through the dining hall scarcely seeming to notice the feasters in it.

No so her father. "The lot of you have been standing around munching while I've had to work," he boomed, "and I'm hungry!"

Andrew had thought he and his men would be seated with the other mercenary captains, well down the ladder of precedence. A eunuch steward-who alarmed Keane when he realized that was what he was-disabused him of the notion. "This festivity was convened in your honor, and it would be less than appropriate were you to take your place elsewhere than at the imperial table."

As his knowledge of elegant Videssian manners was small, Andrew would have willingly have forgone the distinction, but, of course, the gently irresistible steward had his way. Instead of soldiers, he found himself keeping company with the leading nobles and foreign envoys in Videssos' court.

The straight-backed chairs were as hard as they looked.

Andrew found himself between the skinny little fellow with whom Emil had been talking and Kathleen, whom the stewards had associated with him. On her other side was the tall dour man who looked like a Videssian in Haloga clothing. He introduced himself as Katakolon Kekaumenos. Going by the name, Keane asked, "You're a Videssian, then?"

"Nay, 'tis not so," Kekaumenos replied in his archaic accent. "I am his Majesty King Sirelios of Agder's embassy to Videssos; in good sooth, his blood is higher than most in this mongrel city." The man of Agder looked round to see if anyone would challenge his statement. The smaller fragment of the empire of old had learned more from its Haloga neighbors than wearing snow-leopard jackets: its ambassador spoke with a bluntness rare in the city. He was also taciturn as any northerner, subsiding into moody silence after speaking his piece.

Andrew's other seatmate nudged him in the ribs. "You think old Katakolon had a poker up his arse, wouldn't you?" he stage-whispered, grinning slyly. "Ah, you don't know who I am, do you, to get away with such talk? Taso Vones is my name, envoy of Khagan Vologes of Khatrish, and so I have diplomat's privilege. Besides, Kekaumenos has reckoned me daft for years-isn't that right, you old scoundrel?"

"As well for you I do," Kekaumenos rumbled, but his stern features could not hide a smile. Evidently he was used to making allowances for Vones.

The fast-talking ambassador gave his attention back to Andrew. "I saw you admiring my beard a few minutes ago."

That wasn't the emotion Keane had felt for the untidy growth. "Well, I-"

"Horrible, isn't it? My master Vologes thinks it makes me look a proper Khamorth, instead of some effete Videssian. As if I could look like that!" He pointed across the table at the emissary of the Khaganate of Thatagush. "Ha, Gawtruz, you butterball, are you drunk yet?"

"Not yet I am," Gawtruz replied, looking rather like a bearded boulder. His Videssian was heavily accented. "But will I be? Haw, yes, to be sure!"

"He's a pig," Taso remarked, "but a pleasant sort of pig, and a sharp man in the bargain. He can also speak perfectly good Videssian when he wants to, which isn't often."

A trifle overwhelmed by the voluble little Khatrisher, Andrew was glad to see the food brought in. The accent was on fish, not surprising in a coastal town like Videssos. There were baked cod, fried shark, lobsters and drawn butter, a tangy stew of clams, crab, and shrimp, as well as other delicacies, among them oysters on the half-shell.

Emil, a few chairs down from Keane, took one look at the oysters, and sighed before shooting a rueful smile at Andrew. "I gave up kosher when I came to America, but sometimes it still hits me."

Princess Alypia, who was sitting almost directly across from him, asked, "What does your comrade think of the shellfish?" and he realized Emil had spoken in English.

"He was remembering some old ways from our world, your Highness," Andrew replied.

The Princess nodded, a frown of concentration appearing on her face as if memorizing the tidbit, before returning to the food.

Andrew couldn't help but smile as he recognized that expression; if the Princess wasn't some sort of scholar, he'd be very surprised.

A gray-haired servant tapped him on the shoulder. Setting a small enamelware dish before Andrew, he murmured, "Herrings in wine sauce, my lord, courtesy of his Highness the Sevastos. They are excellent, he says."

Recalling only too vividly the encounter of the day before, Andrew looked down the table to Vardanes Sphrantzes. The Sevastos raised his glass in genial salute. Keane looked back to the herrings, and couldn't forget the veiled look of menace he had seen in Sphrantzes' eyes.

Alypia noticed his hesitation. "Anyone watching you would say you thought that your final meal," she said.

A scholar indeed, he thought sourly. Her powers of observation seemed to be quite good. But what could he say? The truth didn't seem to be politic. "Your Majesty, I can't refuse the Sevastos' gift, but herrings and my digestion don't blend well together." Next to him Kathleen let out a soft snort of laughter, and Andrew felt himself flush slightly.

The princess blinked at his seeming frankness, then burst into laughter herself. Keane didn't see the slit-eyed look Sphrantzes sent his way. That it might be dangerous for a mercenary captain to make a princess of the blood laugh hadn't occurred to him.

Although the Sevastokrator Thorisin stayed to roister on, the Emperor and his daughter, having arrived late, left the banquet early. After their departure things grew livelier.

Two of the desert nomads, relegated to a far table by the insignificance of their tribes, found nothing better to do than quarrel with each other. One of them, a ferret-faced man with waxed mustaches, screamed a magnificent guttural oath and broke his winecup over his rival's head. Others at the table pulled them apart before they could go for their knives.

"Disgraceful," Taso Vones said. "Why can't they leave their blood-feuds at home?"

Snatches of drunken song floated up throughout the Hall of the Nineteen Couches. O'Donald began a rousing drinking song of his own, and those around him smiled and tried to follow the foreign words of the new tune.

Several Khamorth were singing in the plains speech. Lifting his face from his cup, Gawtruz of Thatagush looked up owlishly and joined them.

"Disgraceful," Taso said again; he, too, understood the plainsmen's tongue. "You can't have Khamorth at a feast without them getting sozzled and calling on all sorts of demons. Most of them follow Skotos in their hearts, you know; cleaving to the good is too dull to be tolerable."

The wine flowed freely; Andrew was finally reduced to taking simple sips.

Emil, however, matched those around him goblet for goblet, pulling it off in grand style.

"I'd like to hear more about your land-America, was it," Taso asked. "A fascinating place, from what I've heard."

Andrew was somehow unsurprised the Khatrisher had heard the name of his home country, and Vones was good company. He looked to ambassador and began to speak when a commotion broke out down toward the end of the imperial table.

The colonel looked to see one of the Khamorth, drunk beyond his senses, had slipped on a patch of grease where someone had spilled something; he had kept his feet, but the wine he was carrying splattered the white robes of Yezd's ambassador.

The Khamorth mumbled apologies in the plains tongue, but the Yezda rose in one smooth motion to tower over the nomad. So thick was his veiling that his eyes were invisible, but Andrew could see the Khamorth wilt under the weight of that hidden gaze.

"Who is that?" Andrew asked Taso, unable to tear his eyes away from the confrontation.

"That is Avshar, ambassador from Yezd," Vones replied in a low voice, dread an undercurrent to his words. "He is the deadliest swordsman I have ever seen, the winner in a score of duels, and a sorcerer besides."

Avshar suddenly dealt the nomad a tremendous roundhouse buffet, sending him lurching back with blood starting from the corner of his mouth. "Dog! Swine! Vile, crawling insect! Is it not enough I must dwell in this the city of my foes? Must I also be subject to insults as well? It shall be your privilege to choose the weapon that will be your death."

The feasting hall grew still. All eyes were on the Khamorth. Gravely insulted, the nomad straightened and growled a reply in his own language.

Avshar, who apparently understood the Khamorth, threw his head back and laughed a sound colder and crueler than any of the winter blizzards that had howled down on Imbros. "So be it-your doom from your own mouth you have spoken. Mebod!" he shouted, and a frightened-looking Yezda servant appeared at his side. "Fetch my gear from my chambers."

The Khamorth turned to his own comrade, and spoke in a tight voice. To Andrew, he looked like a man contemplating his own demise, but determined to carry on even so. It was a look he had seen countless times before, as lines of Union and Confederate troops advanced and unleashed sheets of flame and smoke at each other.

While everyone waited for the fighters' gear to be fetched, a double handful of high-ranking officers, like so many servants, shoved tables around, clearing a space.

Wagers flew thick and fast. From the shouts, Andrew knew the Khamorth was the underdog. The Sevastokrator Thorisin Gavras called to Vardanes Sphrantzes, "Who do you like, seal-stamper?"

The dislike on the Sevastos' face covered Gavras, Avshar, and the nomad impartially. He rubbed his neatly bearded chin. "Though it grieves me to say it, I think it all too likely the Yezda will win."

"Are you a hundred goldpieces sure?"

Sphrantzes hesitated again, and then nodded. "Done!" Thorisin exclaimed. Andrew, who personally sided with the Khamorth, was glad to see the Sevastokrator's backing, but knew the Emperor's brother would have been as quick to favor Avshar if Sphrantzes had chosen him.

A cry rang out when the Yezda ambassador's servant returned with his master's bow and quiver of arrows. The great bow was as mighty a specimen of the archer's trade as Andrew had ever seen. The arrows that filled his quiver were fletched with feathers black as coal.

Moments later the Khamorth's comrade returned with his own horn-backed bow and quiver, and he slapped his companion's shoulder in encouragement before he stepped back.

The two duelists stared at each other, the Khamorth's visage grim while even Andrew could feel the mockery in Avshar's unseen glance. Then the two turned away from each other, and paced their way to the opposite walls of the widest portion of the hall.

For a man so tall, the Yezda was devilishly quick, and he pulled an arrow from his quiver and fired in what seemed the blink of an eye. As it blurred across the hall, the Khamorth loosed his own arrow a moment before Avshar's struck him in the chest and sent him toppling soundlessly.

Andrew watched the Khamorth's arrow as it arced just below the ceiling, and found he hoping it would fly true. However Avshar, laughing his terrible laugh, made a quick, derisive pass with his hand. The arrow blazed for an instant, then vanished.

Silence slammed down over the hall. Keane looked to the Khamorth, and saw that his eyes were set and empty; a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and into his beard. The shaft that had struck him down was buried almost to the feathers, a few digits to the left of his breastbone.

A few cheers rang out for Avshar's shot, but most silently made good their wagers with low voices, the festive atmosphere of the banquet washed away.

Sphrantzes accepted his winnings from the sour-faced Sevastokrator with a stoic expression, but Andrew didn't miss the gleam in his eyes. Still likes to be victorious even at the hand of his country's enemy, Andrew thought in disgust.

He looked away from the Sevastos to Avshar and, to his surprise, the Yezda ambassador locked eyes with him. The weight of the unseen gaze was like a blow, but Andrew maintained it with his own cold glare, his expression stony.

Avshar raised a mocking salute to the Yankee colonel, then handed his bow to his servant and swept out of the hall, his dark laugh echoing behind him.

* * *

Having heard the rumors of the dark end of the banquet the officers had attended the night before, Vincent was glad it was his company's turn for leave. He was even gladder he had Webster walking alongside him; Videssos was a bigger, livelier, more brawling town than Imbros had been, and far more than East Vassalboro.

Seabirds whirled and mewed overhead as they left the elegant quiet of the imperial quarters for the hurly-burly of the forum of Palamas, the great square named for an Emperor nine centuries dead. At its center stood the Milestone, a column of red granite from which distances throughout the Empire were reckoned.

As Vincent and Webster drew closer to the column's base, they saw two heads, now fleshless from the passage of time and the attention of scavengers, were displayed on pikes. Plaques beneath them bore writing in the Videssian script, but not only was Hawthorne unable to read them, the heads were the focus of his horrified attention.

"Good God," Webster said, appalled as well. Next to him, Vincent gulped. In his sheltered life growing up in a Quaker community, he had never imagined such a thing.

Around them the people of Videssos ignored the gruesome display. They had seen heads go up on pikes before and expected these would not be last.

Silently the two privates walked away from the Milestone. At every stall they passed, merchants and hucksters tried to sell them their wares: fried sparrows stuffed with sesame seeds; candied almonds; bronze scalpels; amulets against heartburn, dysentery, or possession by a ghost; wines and ales from every corner of the Empire and beyond; books of erotic verse-those made Vincent blush and retreat in confusion.

Overwhelmed by the hubbub, Hawthorne fled the forum of Palamas for the back streets and alleyways of the city, Webster sticking close. In such a maze it was easy to lose oneself, and the two soon did. Their wandering feet led them into a quarter full of small, grimy taverns, homes once fine but now shabby from neglect or crowding, and shops crammed with oddments either suspiciously cheap or preposterously expensive. Young men in the brightly dyed tights and baggy tunics of street toughs slouched along in groups of three or four. It was the sort of neighborhood where even the dogs traveled in pairs.

While at Imbros many of the Yankee enlisted men had taken to learning the use of a short sword that was commonly carried by Videssian travelers and hunters. The Videssian word for the weapon was almost unpronounceable; most Yankees simply called them 'bowie swords' because of their passing resemblance to a bowie knife. While he was not especially good, Vincent wore his on his belt as did Webster He hoped the weapons' presence would keep would be cutpurses and cutthroats away.

This was a more rancid taste of Videssos than Hawthorne had intended. He was looking for a way back toward some more familiar part of the city when he felt furtive fingers fasten themselves to his belt. Vincent yelped and Webster, thus alerted, drew his shortsword and grabbed the awkward thief before he could run.

Instead of one of the sneering youths who prowled those streets, the two found that their captive was an older man of about thirty, dressed in threadbare homespun. The would-be pickpocket didn't struggle in Webster's grasp. Instead he went limp, body and face alike expressing utter despair. "All right, you damned hired swords, you've got me, but there's precious little you can do to me," he said. "I'd have starved in a few days anyway."

He _was_ thin. His shirt and breeches flapped on his frame and his skin was stretched tight across his cheekbones. But his shoulders were wide, and his hands strong-looking-both his carriage and his twanging speech said he was more used to walking behind a plow than skulking down the alley. He had borne arms, too; Webster, at least, had seen the look in his eyes before, on soldiers acknowledging defeat at the hands of overwhelming force.

Sympathetic for one in such a wretched state, Hawthorne said, "I can give you some money."

"Don't want nobody's charity, least of all a poxy mercenary's," the Videssian snapped. "Weren't for you mercenaries, I wouldn't be here today, and I wish to Phos I wasn't." He hesitated. "Aren't you going to give me to the eparch?"

The very thought horrified Hawthorne; he remembered those heads by the Milestone. Besides that, he was curious what a misplaced farmer was doing in a Videssian slum, reduced to petty thievery for survival. And why did he blame mercenaries for his plight?

"Perhaps we can buy you a meal, and-wait, please don't refuse right away." Vincent saw the Videssian's hand already starting to rise in rejection, while Webster still had a hold on him and looked dubious. Hawthorne looked at Webster reprovingly, said in English, "It's the Christian thing to do."

Webster sighed and released the man as Vincent continued in Videssian, "As we eat, I'd appreciate it if you could answer my questions and tell me why you dislike mercenaries. Is that good?"

The rustic's larynx bobbed in his scrawny neck. "My pride says no, but my belly says yes, and I haven't had much chance to listen to it lately. You're an odd one, you know-I've never seen gear like yours, you talk funny, and you're the first hired trooper I've ever seen who'd feed a hungry man instead of booting him in his empty gut. Phostis Apokavkos is my name, and much obliged to you."

Hawthorne introduced himself and Webster in return. The eatery Phostis led them to was a hovel whose owner fried nameless bits of meat in stale oil and served them on husk-filled barley bread. The wine seemed to be equally unprepossessing. That Apokavkos couldn't afford even this place was a measure of his want.

For a goodly time he was too busy chewing and swallowing to have much to say, but at last he slowed, belched enormously, and patted his stomach. "I'm so used to empty, I near forgot how good full could feel. So you want to hear my story do you?"

"That's right," Vincent replied, nodding.

Phostis nodded and took a pull at his wine. "This is foul, isn't it? I was too peckish to notice before. I grew better grapes than this my own self, back on my farm-

"That's a good place to start, I guess. I had a steading in the province of Raban, not far from the border with Yezd-do you know the country I mean?"

"Not really," Hawthorne admitted. "I'm new to Videssos."

"Thought you were. Well, then, it's on the far side of the Cattle-Crossing, about a month's foot-travel from here. I should know-I did the hike, fool that I was. Anyway, that farm had been in my family for longer than we could remember any more. We weren't just peasants, either-we'd always been part of the provincial militia. We had to send a man to war if the militia got called and to keep up a horse and gear ready to fight any time, but in exchange we got out of paying taxes. We even got paid sometimes, when the government could afford it.

"That's how my grandfather told it, anyhow. It sounds too good to be real, if you ask me. It was in granddad's day the Mankaphas family bought out about every farm in the village, us included. So we served the Mankaphai instead of the government, but things still weren't bad-they kept the tax collectors off our backs well enough."

"The local grandee," Webster commented in English.

Hawthorne was silent, not wishing to pass judgement, but he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with the idea of nobles lording it over farmers like Apokavkos.

Phostis shot Webster a curious glance after the comment, then shrugged when they fell silent and continued, "Of course, the pen-pushers weren't happy over losing our taxes, and the Mankaphai were even less happy about paying in our place now that they owned the land. Five years ago Phostis Mankaphas-I'm named for him-rebelled along with a fair pile of other nobles. That was the year before Mavrikios Gavras raised a ruction big enough to work, and we were swamped."

Vincent noted how he took the noble's side without hesitation, and frowned. He also learned that the reigning Emperor held his throne thanks to a successful rebellion.

"The pen-pushers broke up the Mankaphas estates and said things would be like they were in granddad's time. Hah! They couldn't trust us for militia no more-we'd fought for the nobles. So in came the taxmen, wanting everything due since the days when Phostis' great-grandfather bought our plot in the first place. I stuck it out as long as I could, but once the bloodsuckers were through, I couldn't keep the dirt under my feet, let alone anything growing on it.

"I knew it was hopeless there and I thought it might not be here, so a year ago I left. Fat lot of good it did me. I'm not much for lying or cheating; all I know is fighting and farming. I commenced to starve just as soon as I got here and I've been at it ever since. I was getting right good at it, too, till you came along."

Hawthorne soon realized he had finished, and found he'd raised even more questions. "This noble-Mankaphas, you said? He bought out your land, and then rebelled when he didn't want to pay your taxes in your place?"

"That sounds about right."

Vincent frowned again. Then why had the nobles bought the land in the first place? Governments collected taxes, but the provincial nobles apparently didn't want the bureaucrats in Videssos the city to interfere in their local affairs. To the private, that sounded uncomfortably like the Confederacy when they started the war back home. Didn't they say, "All we want is to be left alone?"

But something else also troubled him. "You-and I suppose a good many like you-made up a militia, you said?"

"That's what I told you, all right."

"But when you revolted, the militia was broken up?"

"Say, you did listen, didn't you?"

"But-aren't you at war with Yezd? Or close enough anyway?" Hawthorne asked, bewildered. "How could they disband troops at a time like that? Who took their place?"

Apokavkos gave him an odd look. "You ought to know."

Hawthorne and Webster exchanged appalled looks. No wonder the Empire was in such trouble! Its rulers had seen its own warriors used by power-hungry nobles against the central government and decided native troops were too disloyal to trust. But the Empire still had foreign foes and had to quell revolts as well. So the bureaucrats of Videssos hired mercenaries to do their fighting for them; the policy there wasn't the finest.

"You are _the_ most peculiar excuses for mercenaries I ever did see," Apokavkos observed. "All of them other buggers came here to take advantage, but you two look innocent as a couple of newborn babes. I do confess to not understanding."

Hawthorne and Webster both looked indignant at that description, but Vincent eventually decided he should try to explain. "Like I said, we're new to Videssos. We, and all the others in our regiment with us, are from farther away than you can imagine."

"What do you mean by that, about how far you're from? I already said you were a new one on me."

Hawthorne ended up telling him about how the regiment had come to Videssos. By the time he was through, Apokavkos was staring at them. "You must be telling the truth; no one would make up a yarn like that and figure to be believed. Phos above, there's thousands could tell my story or one about like it, but in all my born days I never heard any to come close to yours." His hand sketched the sun-disc over his breast.

"Well, it _is_ the truth," Hawthorne assured him. He found he rather liked this strangely met acquaintance, appreciating his matter-of-factness in the face of trouble. Even if he knew it would not be good enough, Apokavkos would give his best.

"How would you like to stop by our barracks some time? Maybe I can get you some food from time to time."

Apokavkos shook his head. "I told you once already about charity."

"Then consider it something one friend would do for another," Hawthorne replied, smiling. "We haven't got many around here. Besides, me, Bill, and many of the other enlisted men could use somebody familiar with the city to show us around and help us learn what places to avoid."

Apokavkos smiled back slowly, as if against his better judgement. "You're a good-hearted man, Vincent. If you're willing to have a scarecrow like me stop by, I guess I won't mind doing it."

Apokavkos shook hands with the two Yankee privates and they parted on the best of terms.

"You think that was the best idea?" Webster asked. "The colonel might not like it."

Vincent flushed. That had escaped his mind completely. However he recalled what he had seen of Colonel Keane so far.

"I don't think he'll mind. The colonel seems like a decent man."

* * *

Attempting to suppress a yawn, Andrew looked about the room. It had been a night without sleep, compounded now by a hangover that made his temples feel as if they were about to explode.

He let his mind wander back to the events of the night before. The banquet had gone well right up until that Avshar took exception to the nomad's readily apparent drunkenness and challenged him to that duel. That memory, and the pain he was feeling, made his expression more grim than usual. The memory of Avshar's dark amusement would stay with him.

Now if only the good doctor could give him a miracle cure for this damned hangover, he thought glumly as he stood up and stretched.

When he went to get breakfast, nursing a cup of wine at first, Emil walked in with a sallow complexion, bloodshot eyes blinking in what appeared to be a vain attempt at focusing. "My hand to God, I'll never drink again."

Andrew, sympathetic to his state, sat quietly as they both tried to gradually repair the damage they had done the night before.

An imperial messenger arrived while Andrew was finishing the last of a breakfast he had finally managed to look at without becoming queasy.

"His Imperial Majesty requests your presence," the Videssian told him, eyeing the men of the regiment in their blue uniforms curiously.

"Oh, I see," Andrew replied. Tzimiskes must have reported what was said at the tavern back at Imbros then. "If I have to see the Emperor, let me wash my face and change."

The messenger ill-concealed his impatience, but nodded grudgingly. Andrew went back to his room, and when he finally emerged the Videssian said, "It's about time," though they both knew how quick he had been.

He led Keane past the Hall of the Nineteen Couches, past the looming Grand Courtroom with its incredible bronzework doors, past a two-story barracks complex-Namdaleni were wandering about there, and Andrew looked for but didn't see Hemond-and through a grove of cherry trees thick with sweet, pink blossoms to a secluded building deep within it-the private chambers of the imperial family, he realized.

A pair of lazy-looking sentries, both Videssians, lounged by the entranceway of the private chambers. They had doffed their helmets so they could soak up the sun; the Videssians deemed a tanned, weathered look a mark of masculine, though not feminine, beauty.

Keane's guide must have been well-known to the guards, who didn't offer even a token challenge as he led the Yankee colonel inside. It was not his job, though, to conduct Keane all the way to the Emperor. Just inside the threshold he was met by a fat chamberlain in a maroon linen robe with a pattern of golden cranes. The chamberlain looked inquiringly at Keane.

"He's the one all right," the messenger said. Without waiting for an answer, he was off on his next mission.

"Come with me, if you please," the chamberlain said to Keane. His voice was more contralto than tenor, and his cheeks were beardless. Like many of the Videssian court functionaries, he was a eunuch. Andrew knew that eunuchs were used around royalty in eastern kingdoms and empires, but couldn't help but feel a pang of horror whenever he ran into one. Reading about history was one thing, he thought, but seeing it was something else.

The long corridor down which the chamberlain led him was lit by translucent panes of alabaster set into the ceiling. The milky light dimmed and grew bright as clouds chased across the sun.

The passageway was crowded with marble and bronze statuary, pottery breathtakingly graceful and painted with elegant precision, busts and portraits of men Keane guessed to be bygone Emperors, religious images lavish with gold leaf and polished gems, a rearing stallion as big as Andrew's hand that had to have been carved from a single emerald, and other marvels he didn't really see because he had too much pride to swivel his head this way and that like a tourist. Even the floor was a bright mosaic of hunting and farming scenes.

In that company, the rusted, dented helmet on a pedestal of its own seemed jarringly out of place. "What is this?" he asked.

"That is the helmet of King Rishtaspa of Makuran-we would say 'Yezd' now-taken from his corpse by the Emperor Laskaris when he sacked Mashiz seven hundred and-let me think a moment-thirty-nine years ago. A most valiant warrior, Laskaris. The portrait above the helmet is his."

The painting showed a stern-faced, iron-bearded man in late middle life. He wore gilded scale-mail, the imperial diadem, and the scarlet boots that marked the Emperors of Videssos, but for all that he looked more like a sergeant-major than a ruler. His left hand was on the hilt of his sword; in his right was a lance. The spear carried a pennant of sky-blue, with Phos' sun-symbol on its field.

The chamberlain continued, "Laskaris forcibly converted all the heathen of Makuran to the one true faith but, as Videssos proved unable to establish lasting rule over their land, they have relapsed into error."

Andrew maintained his expression of attentiveness, but felt a sinking feeling on the inside. Religious wars, forced conversions... If the people of Makuran were as resolute about their faith as Videssians were for the worship of Phos, such wars would rival the Thirty Years' War over two hundred years before on earth. And we're all in the middle of it, he thought.

The eunuch was ushering him into a small, surprisingly spare chamber. It held a couch, a desk, a couple of chairs but, save for an image of Phos, was bare of the artwork crowding the hallway. The parchments on the desk had been shoved to one side to make room for a plain earthen jug of wine and a plate of cakes.

Seated on the couch were the Emperor, his daughter Alypia, and a big-bellied man of about sixty whom Andrew had seen but not met the night before.

"If you will give me your sword, sir-" the chamberlain began, but Mavrikios interrupted him.

"Oh, run along, Mizizios. He's not out for my head, not yet, anyway-he doesn't know me well enough. And you needn't stand there waiting for him to prostrate himself. It's against his religion, or some such silly thing. Go on, out with you."

Looking faintly scandalized, Mizizios disappeared.

Once he was gone, the Emperor waved a bemused Keane in. "I'm in private now, so I can ignore ceremony if I please-and I do please," Gavras said. This was Thorisin's brother after all; though Thorisin's fiery impetuosity was banked in him, it did not fail to burn.

"You might tell him who I am," the aging stranger suggested. He had an engagingly homely face; his beard was snow streaked with coal and reached nearly to his paunch. He looked like a scholar or a healer, but from his robes only one office could be his; he wore gem-strewn cloth-of-gold, with a large circle of blue silk on his left breast.

"So I might," the Emperor agreed, taking no offense at his aggrieved tone. Here, plainly, were two men who had known and liked each other for years. "Outlander, this tub of lard is called Balsamon. When I took the throne I found him Patriarch of Videssos and I was fool enough to leave him on his seat."

"Father!" Alypia said, but there was no heat in her complaint.

As he nodded to them, Andrew studied the patriarch's features, looking for the fanaticism he had seen in Apsimar. He didn't find it. Wisdom and mirth dominated Balsamon's face; despite his years, the prelate's brown eyes were still keen and among the shrewdest Keane could recall.

"Bless you, my heretic friend," he said. In his clear tenor the words were a friendly greeting with no trace of condescension. "And do sit down. I'm harmless, I assure you."

A bit out of his depth, Andrew sank into a chair. "First of all I wish to ask

your impression of last night's banquet," Gavras said. "I heard the ambassador of the Khagan of Yezd left his own mark on the night."

Andrew nodded, expressionless. Avshar's actions both rankled and horrified him.

The Emperor visibly measured him with his eyes. "My brother came storming in here to wake me out of a sound sleep and bellow about the gross insult the ambassador showed. Wulghash sent Avshar here as a calculated insult."

His expression set in somber lines. "Yezd is a disease, not a nation, and I intend to wipe it from the face of the earth. Videssos and what was once Makuran have always fought-they to gain access to the Videssian Sea or the Sailor's Sea, we to take their rich river valleys, and both sides to control the passes, the mines, and the fine fighting men of Vaspurakan between us. Over the centuries, I'd say, honors were evenly divided."

Andrew frowned at the mention of Vaspurakan; it sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it offhand. Resolving to think about it later, he continued to listen. He was offered and chewed on one of the excellent cakes, full of nuts and raisins and dusted over with cinnamon. They went very well with the spiced wine in the jug.

"Forty years ago, though," the Emperor went on, "The Yezda from the steppe of Shaumkhiil sacked Mashiz, seized all of Makuran, and rammed their way through Vaspurakan into the Empire. They kill for the sport of it, steal what they can carry, and wreck what they can't. And because they are nomads, they gleefully lay waste all the farmland they come across. Our peasants, from where the Empire gets most of its taxes, are murdered or driven into destitution, and our western cities starve because no peasants are left to feed them."

"Worse yet, the Yezda follow Skotos," Balsamon said. When Andrew made no reply, the patriarch cocked a bushy gray eyebrow at him in sardonic amusement. "You think, perhaps, this is something I would be likely to say of anyone who does not share my creed? You must have seen enough of our priests to know most of them do not take kindly to unbelievers."

Andrew shrugged, unwilling to commit himself. He, of course, remembered Apsimar and his slighting tone of everyone who didn't share his definition of his faith. He also had an uneasy feeling the patriarch was playing a game with him.

The patriarch laughed at his noncommittal response. He had a good laugh, inviting everyone within earshot to share the joke. "Mavrikios, it is a courtier, not a soldier!"

His eyes still twinkling, he gave his attention back to the Yankee. "I am not a typical priest, I fear. Time was when the Makurani gave reverence to their Four Prophets, whose names I forget. I think their faith was wrong, I think it was foolish, but I do not think it damned them or made them impossible to treat with. The Yezda, though, worship their gods with disembowled victims writhing on their altars and summon demons to glut themselves on the remains. They are a wicked folk and must be suppressed." If anything convinced Andrew of the truth in Balsamon's words, it was the real regret his voice bore...that, and the memory of Avshar's dark laugh, echoing as he walked out of the hall.

"And suppress them I shall," Mavrikios Gavras took up the discussion. In his vehemence he pounded right fist into left palm. "The first two years I held the throne, I fought them to a standstill on our borders. Last year, for one reason and another-" He did not elaborate and looked so grim that Andrew decided not to ask for details. "-I could not campaign against them. We suffered for it, in raids and stings and torments. This year, Phos willing, I will be able to hire enough mercenaries to crush Yezd once and for all. I read your arrival here as a good omen for that, my proud friend from another world."

Andrew considered their words. If the Yezda were as they said they were, then they truly needed to be stopped. Videssos, no matter how outmoded its institutions, was at least civilized, while Yezd would lay waste to countless innocents if left unchecked. Besides, Videssos could change if given the chance.

Recalling past instances of the use of mercenaries, though, he replied, "I think you would do better to use native troops than spend your money on hired swords."

The Emperor stared, jaw dropping. Sneaking a glance at Balsamon, Andrew saw he'd managed to startle the patriarch as well. The princess Alypia, on the other hand, who so far had held herself aloof from the conversation, looked at Keane in appraisal and, he thought, growing approval.

The patriarch recovered before his sovereign. "Be glad this one is on your side, Gavras. He sees things clearly."

Mavrikios was still shaking his head in wonder. He spoke not to Keane, but to Balsamon. "What is he? Two days in the city? Three? There are men who have been in the palaces longer than he's been alive who cannot see that far. You might be interested to know, Andrew Lawrence Keane-" Andrew was pleased but not surprised that Gavras knew his full name. "-that we once had such an arrangement. Perhaps my daughter could explain better. She reads history, you understand." He spoke as if in apology.

Andrew knew it wasn't necessary, and his earlier suspicion was confirmed. There was plainly a keen wit behind her eyes, though she kept it on a short rein of words.

Alypia said, "A hundred years ago the peasantry was free, not bound to our nobles." She went on to explain the arrangement much as Apokavkos was telling Hawthorne elsewhere in the city, though they didn't know that. Andrew nodded as she spoke; it sounded very much like the old Byzantine theme system.

"Until I took the throne," Mavrikios said, taking up the explanation, "the damned bureaucrats ruled the Empire for all but two years of the last fifty, in spite of everything the nobles in the provinces could do against them. They had the money to hire mercenaries and they held the capital, and that proved enough for the puppet-Emperors they raised to keep their seats. And to ruin their rivals in the power struggle, they turned our militiamen into serfs and taxed them to death so they couldn't fight for their patrons. A plague on every one of them, from Vardanes Sphrantzes on down!"

"It's not as simple as that, Father, and you know it very well," Alypia said. "Would any Emperor, no matter how simple, want private armies raised against him, or want to see the taxes rightfully his siphoned into the hands of men who dream of the throne themselves?"

Mavrikios looked at her with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Say what you want about how things were a hundred years ago. Ten years ago, when Strobilos Sphrantzes had his fat fundament on the throne-"

"You'd say 'arse' to anyone but me," Alypia said. "I've heard the word before."

"Probably from my own mouth, I fear." Gavras sighed. "I do try to watch my tongue, but I've spent too many years in the field."

Andrew ignored the byplay. A Sphrantzes ruling Videssos just before Mavrikios forcibly took power? Then what in God's name was Vardanes Sphrantzes doing as the present Emperor's chief minister?

"Where was I?" Gavras was saying. "Oh yes, that cretin Strobilos. He was a bigger booby than his precious nephew. Fifty thousand peasants on the border of Vaspurakan he converted from soldiers to serfs in one swoop, and overtaxed serfs at that. Is it any wonder half of them went over to the Yezda, foul as they are, on their next raid? There's such a thing, Alypia, as taking too long a view."

"I'm sorry, but excuse me, your Majesty," Andrew interrupted. "If Strobilos Sphrantzes was your, ah, predecessor, then why is Vardanes Sphrantzes your Sevastos?"

Mavrikios didn't look put out and, indeed, smiled as he said, "Ah, Keane, then there _is_ something you don't know? I'd started to wonder. Balsamon, you tell it-you were in things up to your fuzzy eyebrows."

Balsamon assumed a comic look of injured innocence. "I? All I did was point out to a few people that Strobilos had, perhaps, not been the ideal ruler for a land in a time of trouble."

"What that means, Yankee, is that our priestly crony here broke a hole in the ranks of the bureaucrats you could throw _him_ through, which is saying something. Half the pen-pushers backed me instead of the old Sphrantzes; their price was making the younger one Sevastos. Worth it, I suppose, but he wants the red boots for himself."

"He also wants me," Alypia said. "It is not mutual."

"I know, dear, I know. I could solve so many problems if it was, but I'm not sure I'd give you to him even so. His wife died too conveniently last year. Poor Evphrosyne! And as soon as was decent-or before, thinking back on it-there was Vardanes, full of praises for the notion of 'cementing our two great houses.' I do not trust that man."

Andrew's opinion of Sphrantzes, not high to begin with, fell even further. That man is a snake in fancy robes, he thought coldly.

"Here, enough of this-I neglect my hostly duties. Have another cake." And the Emperor of Videssos, like any good host, extended the platter to Keane.

"With pleasure," Andrew said, taking one. "They're delicious."

"Thank you," said Alypia. When Andrew blinked, she went on, a bit defensively: "I was not raised in the palaces, you know, with a servant to squirm at every crook of my finger. I learned womens' skills well enough, and after all-" She smiled at her father. "-no one can read history all the time."

"Your Highness, I said they were very good cakes before I knew who made them," Andrew pointed out, smiling and nodding to her. Alypia smiled back.

"Now, for the real purpose of this meeting," the Avtokrator continued "Neilos Tzimiskes tells me that you wish to speak about acquiring land for yourself and your men. You know that is no small thing you are asking for?"

"I'm well aware of that," Andrew replied. "You saw yourself what our muskets and cannons can do yesterday." Mavrikios nodded, along with Balsamon and Alypia; now Andrew recalled seeing both of them at the demonstrations as well. "They need what we call _gunpowder_ and _percussion caps._ We have an ample supply of both; however it is not infinite. And we need them not only for actual combat, but to practice and maintain our skill with these weapons.

"We have in our ranks men who know how to make them," Keane went on, warming up to his subject-Chuck Ferguson, a private in Houston's company, had studied chemistry at university, knew the formula and process of making gunpowder, and even had a copy of _Scientific American_ in his haversack that included an article on the refining of quicksilver into fulminate for percussion caps. "That is what we need the land for-to create a mill for the powder, a refinery to make the percussion caps, and a works to make spare parts for our muskets."

"Could you not do this in the city?" the Emperor asked.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Andrew replied, "that would not be-ideal. The making of gunpowder is not only labor intensive, it is extremely dangerous. If something were to go wrong-a spark in the powder mill, for instance could create an explosion that could set the city on fire." Both Alypia and Balsamon started at that, in a large city like Videssos a city fire was a very real and dangerous threat. "And the fulminate for percussion caps can easily poison the water supply. For these reasons, it's best this be done away from a populated area."

Balsamon interjected, "Dangerous things often are dangerous to make."

"So they are," answered Mavrikios, conceding the point. The emperor paused for several seconds. "Still, you are asking for a great deal-especially for a mercenary captain who only just arrived in Videssos."

"I realize that," answered Keane. "Here's what I propose. Several of my men, before they were soldiers, have worked in mines. In our land, we have learned in recent years new methods of mining that have greatly increased productivity that we believe might improve Videssos' own mining operations as well."

Andrew went on to describe what Mina and the various miners in the regiment had told him. He hoped he got the details right-to him the secrets of mining were a mystery.

The Emperor listened intently; Keane took that for a good sign. "I'm not asking for any title of nobility," the colonel said. "I'm just trying to acquire what my men need so we can perform at our best, if and when we need to fight in your wars."

"What you propose does intrigue me," said Mavrikios. "I must think on this some more; you will have my answer within 2 days. I must warn you though, I have little use for those who make promises they cannot keep."

* * *

Mizizios the eunuch led the Yankee back to the entrance of the imperial quarters, then vanished back into the building on some business of his own. The messenger who had led Keane there was nowhere to be seen. The Videssians, apparently, took less care over exits than entrances.

Their sentries were also less careful than Andrew found tolerable. When he emerged into the sunshine of late afternoon, he found both guards sprawled out asleep in front of the doorway. Their sword belts were undone; their spears lay beside the helmets they had already shed when Keane saw them.

Their sloth infuriated Andrew. He'd never stand for such a thing in his own regiment. Mavrikios was a good and decent man, and despite the veiled threats he gave during their conversation from what Andrew saw he really did care for his people. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" the colonel roared.

The sentries jerked and scrambled upright, fumbling for the weapons they had set aside. Andrew impaled them with a cold glare, and said, "If you were under my command, you'd find out what _we_ do to sentries who fall asleep, I promise you that."

The Videssians went from amazement to sullenness. The older one, a stocky, much-scarred veteran, muttered to his companion, "Who does this churlish barbarian think he is?"

Andrew seethed with rage. He exploded and cursed the startled veteran with every bit of Videssian foulness he had learned, and in the blink of an eye pulled out his revolver and cocked the hammer. Cold fear quickly took hold on the Videssian's face; he must have been one of the soldiers present at the demonstration earlier and had Seen Andrew use this very weapon to shoot a watermelon covered with a soldier's helmet. From the look on his face, the Videssian expected to be shot at any moment.

Breathing hard, Keane looked from one guard to the other. "When do your reliefs arrive?" he snapped at the two of them.

"In about another hour, sir," the younger, milder guard answered. He spoke very carefully, as one might to a tiger which had asked them the time of day.

"Very well. Tell them what happened to you and let them know someone will be by to check on them sometime during their watch." Andrew de-cocked and holstered his pistol. "And may your Phos help them and you if they get caught sleeping!"

He turned his back on the sentries and stalked off, giving them no chance to question or protest. In fact, he didn't intend to send anyone to spy on the next watch. The threat alone should be enough to keep them alert.

As he walked back past the barracks hall belonging to the mercenaries from the Duchy of Namdalen, he head his name called. Helvis was leaning out of a top-story window, smiling and waving.

Smiling himself, he waved back, his anger at the sentries forgotten for the moment. She was friendly enough, and Hemond was a good sort, too. Andrew had had a good impression of him from their first meeting at the Silver Gate.

He was so intent on his own thoughts that he forgot to pay attention to where his feet were taking him. The first knowledge he had that he wasn't alone on his pathway came when he bounced off a man coming in the opposite direction. "Excuse me!" he exclaimed, looking to see whom he'd staggered.

His victim, a short chubby man, wore the blue robes of the priesthood of Phos. His shaven head gave him a curious ageless look, but he was not old-gray had not touched his beard, and his face was hardly lined. "Quite all right, quite all right," he said. "It's my own fault for not noticing you were full of your own thoughts."

"That's good of you, but truly, I'm sorry about that."

"Don't trouble yourself about it. Am I not right in recognizing you as the leader of the new company of outland mercenaries?"

Andrew admitted it. He would have been hard not to recognize, with his uniform and his one arm.

"Then I've wanted to meet you for some time." The priest's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Though not so abruptly as this, perhaps."

"Indeed not," Andrew smiled. "And you are...?"

"Oh, yes-no reason you should know me, is there? I'm called Nepos. I wish I could claim my interest in you was entirely unselfish, but I fear I can't. You see, I hold one of the chairs in sorcery at the Videssian Academy."

Andrew nodded, and eyed the priest with new respect. In a land where magic held so strong a place, it seemed logical that it would take its place alongside other intellectual pursuits such as history or engineering. And since the regiment was widely known to have come to Videssos by no natural means, the Empire's sorcerers must be burning with curiosity about their arrival. For that matter, so was he-Nepos might be able to make him understand that terrifying period when he and his men were whisked to this world.

He gauged the sun. "It should be about time for my men to sit down to their midday meal. Would you care to join us? After we've eaten, you can ask questions all you like."

"Nothing would please me more," Nepos answered, beaming at him. "Lead on, and I'll follow as best I can-your legs are longer than mine, I'm afraid."

Despite his round build, the little priest had no trouble keeping up with Andrew. His sandaled feet twinkled over the ground, and as he walked, he talked. An endless stream of questions bubbled from him, queries not only about the religious and magical practices of America, but about matters social and political as well. Remembering his gaffe with Tzimiskes in Imbros, Keane's answers were more guarded in that regard.

At the regiment's barracks Andrew found the sentries alert and vertical. He would have been astounded had it been otherwise. Far less dangerous for a soldier to face an oncoming reb than Hans Schuder's wrath.

Inside the hall, most of the soldiers were already spooning down their lunch, bowls of beans with salt pork and various herbs, and hardtack. It was better food than they would have had on campaign in the South, but of similar kind. Nepos accepted his bowl and spoon with a word of thanks.

Andrew introduced the priest to Hans, O'Donald, Emil, Kathleen, Tobias, and several others of the regiment. They found a quiet corner and talked while they ate. Once more Keane found himself telling a Videssian his tale. Unlike others, Nepos was no passive audience. His questions were good-natured but probing, his constant effort aimed toward piecing together a consistent account from the recollections of his table companions.

Why did it start as a tunnel of light, and change to a sphere of light midway? Why did some men stay awake longer than the majority, who had been rendered unconscious almost immediately?

They all answered Nepos patiently for a time, but finally Hans rumbled, "What's the point, anyway, of finding out if one of us broke wind while we were in there?"

"None whatever, very possibly," Nepos smiled, taking no offense. "Did anyone?"

After the general laughter, Nepos went on in a more serious vein, "The only way to understand anything in the past is to find out as much as one can about it. Often people have no idea how much they can remember or, indeed, how much of what they think they know is false. Only patient inquiry and comparing many accounts can bring us near the truth."

Andrew smiled and said, "You talk like a historian, not a priest or a wizard."

Nepos smiled back. He answered, "I talk like myself and nothing else. There are priests so struck by the glory of Phos' divinity that they contemplate the divine essence to the exclusion of all worldly concerns, and reject the world as a snare Skotos laid for their temptation.

"To my mind," Nepos continued, "the world and everything in it reflects Phos' splendor, and deserves the study of men who would approach more nearly an understanding of Phos' plan for the Empire and all mankind."

To that Andrew could make no reply. To his way of thinking, the world and everything in it was worth studying for its own sake. Yet he had to recognize Nepos' sincerity and his goodness.

"Being a wizard, what have you learned from us?" Kathleen asked Nepos; until then she'd sat largely silent.

"Less than I'd have liked, I must admit. All I can tell you is the obvious truth that this was some powerful approbation spell that brought you hither. If there is a greater purpose behind your coming, I do not think it has unfolded yet."

Nepos paused a moment as those assembled pondered his words, then he continued, "I would very much like to see, even board, this fabled ship of yours, if you would allow me."

Andrew exchanged glances with the others. The request was certainly reasonable enough. After a look at Tobias, he replied, "I don't see any problem with that."

Tobias glared, but was too proud of his ship to pass up the opportunity to have it become the center of attention.

A long walk to the Neorhesian harbor followed, where Nepos once again chattered cheerfully with those accompanying him, nodding to the respect shown him by the Videssians they passed along the way.

When they finally reached the _Ogunquit_ , Andrew saw its crew was busy loading wood for the boilers.

"Captain Tobias, have we your permission to board?" he asked.

Tobias, obviously enjoying the fact that Andrew was now on his territory, merely nodded, and then, broadening a smile, touched Nepos on the shoulder and invited him to climb the ramp. Falling in behind Nepos and Tobias, Andrew and Tzimiskes mounted the deck.

Tobias signaled below to the boiler room, and dark puffs of smoke belched from the smokestack and a vibration ran through the vessel.

Nepos stood in stunned silence for a bit, while Tobias, with Tzimiskes' help, worked to explain what was happening. Finally Tobias simply pointed to a hatchway, and the party went below, Andrew bringing up the rear.

The engine deck was hot, the thunderous pounding of the twin reciprocating cylinders working their steady rhythm.

Tobias tried to explain the workings of the steam engine, pointing to the driveshaft leading aft to the single screw. Nepos seemed filled with an enraptured awe of the thundering heat-shimmering device.

After the party went topside, he wandered about the deck, looking at every fixture, pulling on the cables, hefting the belaying pins, and examining the single field piece, mounted on chocks amidships.

Nepos exclaimed, "Wonderful! Your people certainly seem to have astonishing abilities of their own." Beaming, he exchanged more pleasantries with them before making his departure. "From what you've all told me, magic is very rare, practically non-existent where you come from, is that correct." Andrew and the other Yankees all nodded. "It seems to me then, that lacking magic, in your world you put greater emphasis on the mechanical and chemical arts-and have achieved thing with them that would astound the most learned of sorcerers."

Smiling himself, Andrew headed back to the barracks. He was reassured by his meetings with Balsamon and Nepos. There seemed to be some genuinely decent and relatively open-minded men among the Videssian priesthood.


	5. Chapter 4

The Lost Regiment series and all related characters belong to William R Forstchen and Roc Publishing; the Videssos cycle to Harry Turtledove and Baen publishing. There I said it. Bad enough I have to make this stupid disclaimer every chapter I update.

Chapter 4

Two days after the audience with Mavrikios, miners from Company A were sent to an iron mine over a day outside of the city, with a letter authorizing them stamped with the imperial seal, to show what they could do, with the agreement that the regiment could keep one part in ten of the mine's yield as payment.

Within a couple weeks the results had been enough for the Emperor to agree to let the Yankees proceed with their planned operation, based at a stream not far from Imbros that actually let out into the Videssian Sea where they could build a wharf for the Ogunquit. Houston soon sent word that there was a good site for a dam, and arranged for labor with Vourtzes in Imbros to help build it. Keane arranged for a rotation between companies to help out with the building of the dam, powder mill, and iron works that would be run by Sean Dunlevy, the 44th's blacksmith.

Almost as soon as they began work a whole new village seemed to spring up nearby as various merchants and traders set up shop to trade with the Yankees. Though there had been orders against any trade involving powder, bullets, even the percussion caps for the muskets since their winter at Imbros, Andrew found himself forced to make them even stricter once they arrived in Videssos itself, and now in this new campsite.

The issue of powder had really worried him, since one merchant had appeared one night, offering significant sums in gold for nothing but a single cartridge. Fortunately he had approached Sergeant Barry, who had spurned the offer and reported the incident. Knowing that the mystery of powder was important to their survival, he had paraded the entire regiment immediately and placed down a law that any man caught in such a trade would receive six months punishment duty for such an action.

Fortunately the men had taken the warning to heart, knowing it was in their best interest. But as an additional precaution all men were to turn in their loose rounds and were issued two ten-round sealed packages for immediate use, which were to be checked daily by their company officers.

He had been alarmed about the possible consequences of another form of trade as well, especially after seeing a woman sauntering around wearing an infantryman's kepi hat.

Emil had dragged the entire regiment out on parade that night and given them a bone-chilling lecture about what might be caught, spiced with dire warnings about the ultimate effects. He had been in a boil about that and disease in general. Nothing had happened yet, and he could only hope that Emil's precautions would spare them.

In the free time Andrew granted after a day of labor on the myriad tasks needed to settle in, the men started to show their creative skills. Nearly every day a delegation of men came to him looking for his approval for a project.

One such project, inspired by Tzimiskes' reaction to gin and the weeks spent drinking nothing but wine, ale and mead, had been the manufacture of distilled alcohol. Due to the preponderance of wine in Videssos, James from the 44th had decided to use his knowledge to make brandy. His project received wide approval from the men of the regiment.

James had bought a copper kettle easily enough in Videssos' coppersmiths' district, but copper tubing had proven somewhat harder. After some experimentation with the assistance of some other men in the regiment, James had finally had his still. The first run, while not the best brandy, was celebrated with by several men of the 44th, as well as Andrew, O'Donald and Emil.

James soon came to Andrew to ask for permission to start selling brandy to the Videssians. Andrew had thought that over, and then stated that if any profits were made selling goods to the locals, half would go to the company that sold it, while the rest went to the regimental coffers.

James had readily agreed and after further runs, he began selling bottles of brandy at his own merchant's stand in the forum of Palamas. After some initial hesitation the drink had taken off and several taverns throughout the city had become regular customers. Before long, James was able to expand his business by building more stills.

To Andrew's delight, Jacobsen and Gates, both from Company C, had also come to him. Jacobsen pointed out that he knew how to make paper, while Gates suggested he might be able to carve out a set of type and thus start a newspaper. Andrew readily gave both of them permission to try their hand at it and exempted them from all duties except the daily drill.

Jacobsen's paper making came along well enough, but Gates was hampered by his limited knowledge of written Videssian which the newspaper would have to be published in. With the help of one of the wandering scribes from the forum of Palamas, Gates was able to carve a set of Videssian type.

There were numerous other scribes in Videssos that Andrew soon realized might become hostile if Gates' printing business was successful. Gates disarmed any ill-feeling by the curious expedient of enlisting them as reporters. He made a standing offer of a couple silvers per story for acceptable news items.

It wasn't the scribes, however, that ended up making the better reporters. Hawthorne's Videssian friend Phostis Apokavkos, who had become well-known through frequent visits to the regiment's barracks, used the street connections he'd made in the city to come up with some quality stories himself. He and Vincent were now both studying written Videssian together so that Apokavkos could write his own stories as well as discovering them.

The first edition of Gates' weekly newspaper, the _Videssos Herald_ , was published with a lot of relatively innocuous news items, a short poem contributed by one of the scribes, an editorial by Gates in which he introduced his paper, and an advertisement for James' brandy.  
 **  
**Andrew was surprised when not only did the first issue sell out, but Gates was busy for days turning away people who wanted copies that were not to be had. While literacy was far from universal in Videssos nearly everyone in the city knew somebody who could read, and would eagerly buy the newspaper so their literate friend could read it to them.

A few scribes, as well as Apokavkos, would drop in every day with more news items. Gates also ended up making a brisk business selling advertisement space for various merchants and shop owners.

Before long the expansion of James and Gates' businesses, as well as other projects the men kept dreaming up, required more space, and Andrew requested an audience with the Emperor to ask for the use of two other nearby barracks halls. Mavrikios instead expressed his own curiosity regarding the booming businesses of the inventive Yankees and was granted a tour.

* * *

"Regiment, present arms!"

As one the men of the 35th snapped muskets to the present position, the dark blue of the state flag snapping in the wind and dipping in salute, while the national colors stayed upright.

Marching into position, Andrew positioned himself in the middle of the hall's door and saluted.

Preceded by twelve silk parasol-carriers, Mavrikios Gavras approached the Yankees drawn up in salute. Rhadenos Vourtzes had been proud of the two sunshades to which his provincial governor's rank entitled him; the imperial retinue was more splendid by six-fold.

There was a long flourish, and the regiment broke into an old favorite, a slightly obscene version of "Dixie" that made Andrew wince. Of course, Mavrikios and his companions wouldn't know the words, but it was something he'd give Hans a chewing-out for later.

Gavras, Andrew saw, had shrouded himself in the imperial dignity for this public occasion. When he drew closer, however, he said, "You've been busy."

Andrew supressed a smile. "Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like to look around?"

Mavrikios smiled himself and replied, "Yes I would. I've tried that 'brandy' drink your man has been selling. Phos, does it have a kick to it."

Andrew smiled back and, following Mavrikios, walked into the barracks hall.

In the space set aside for James' business, Gavras was fascinated by the stills. "Now _that's_ interesting. Are you sure there isn't sorcery involved in those things?"

"No magic is involved at all." Andrew replied.

"Colonel, sir."

Andrew turned to see Hawthorne standing there.

"What is it, son?"

Hawthorne stepped forward, pulling his knapsack off from his shoulders. Opening it up, he brought out a small wooden clock, carved by hand.

"Sir, I thought with your permission I could give this to Emperor Mavrikios as a token of friendship from myself and the enlisted men."

Andrew could not help but smile at the boy's earnestness.

"Does it keep time well?" Andrew asked.

Smiling, Vincent pulled out a small pendulum, attached it beneath the clock, and set it to ticking.

"There's only an hour hand, sir-it made the gearing a lot simpler. But it'll do."

"Well done, lad," and Andrew patted the young Quaker on the shoulder. Tzimiskes quickly translated the conversation and following Hawthorne's lead explained the workings of the clock.

Opening the back panel, Vincent showed Mavrikios the gears working inside, and the Emperor looked suitably impressed by the newest Yankee curiosity, which he accepted with evident delight.

Mavrikios smiled warmly at Vincent and thanked him personally.

The tour went on to the printing presses and on to the 44th's field pieces. By the end, Mavrikios was shaking his head in amazement.

"You and your men are far more than a mercenary company, that's certain."

Andrew nodded his thanks, then asked, "About those two other halls..."

Mavrikios smiled and looked back at the printing presses. "Get me a copy of this _Videssos Herald_ every time it comes out and you'll get the use of those two extra barracks."

Smiling, Andrew agreed.

* * *

While the men of 35th and 44th kept coming up with various projects, the senior officers found themselves frequently invited to the Videssian Academy, to discuss how the regiment had come to Videssos, as well as to learn about the land from which these strangers had come from. Andrew and Emil made most of the visits, both being learned men they were on familiar ground. Andrew also took the opportunity to learn the Empire's history, and found himslef struck by how similar yet vastly different it was with the Byzantine Empire from the history of his own world. The Emperor Genasios seem almost like the Byzantine's Phocas, with his successor Maniakes as Heraclius-although Videssos had been fortunate that there was nothing like the Arab expansion that had crippled the Byzantines. And the Emperor Krispos of several generations later seemed almost a combination of Basil I and the II.

In the weeks that followed Tobias had found a task as well. Looking to add to the regiment's resources, he began using the _Ogunquit_ to start shipping various cargoes between Videssos the city and the Empire's other ports in the Videssian westlands. Andrew felt a sense of relief that the quarrelsome captain was out of his hair for a while.

Also, as the weeks passed, Videssos began filling with warriors mustered to wage the great campaign the Emperor had planned. Every street, it seemed, had its contingent of soldiers swaggering along, elbowing civilians to one side, on the prowl for food, drink, and women...or simply standing and gaping at the wonders Videssos offered the newcomer's eye.

True to his promise, Mavrikios sent his neighbors a call for mercenaries against Yezd, and the response was good. Videssian ships sailing from Prista, the Empire's watchport on the northern coast of the Videssian Sea, brought companies of Khamorth from the plains, and their steppe-ponies with them. By special leave, other bands of nomads were permitted to cross the Astris River. They came south to the capital by land, paralleling the seacoast and, in the latter stage of their journey, following the route the regiment had used from Imbros. Parties of Videssian outriders made sure the plainsmen did not plunder the countryside.

The Namdaleni also heeded the Empire's rallying cry. The Duchy's lean square-riggers brought Videssos two regiments to fight the Yezda. Getting them into the capital, however, was a tricky business. Namdalen and the Empire were foes too recent for much trust to exist on either side. Mavrikios, while glad of the manpower, was not anxious to see Namdalener warships anchored at Videssos' quays, suspecting the islanders' piratical instincts might get the better of their good intentions. Thus the Namdaleni transshipped at the Key and came to the city in imperial hulls. The matter-of-fact way they accepted the Emperor's solution convinced Andrew that all Gavras' forebodings were justified.

Khatrish, whose border marched with Videssos' eastern frontier, sent the Empire a troop of light cavalry. In gear and appearance they were about halfway between imperials and plainsdwellers, whose bloods they shared.

Shortly after their arrival Taso Vones, the Khatrisher ambassador, sent an invitation for Andrew and the regiment to attend a feast he was putting together. Remembering how Vones was at the banquet that had welcomed the regiment's arrival in the city, Keane was sure it would be anything but dull.

Torches, lamps, and fat beeswax candles kept the courtyard in front of the Hall of Ambassadors bright as day, though by now the sun was a couple of hours gone. The Hall, as was only natural, lay close by the Grand Courtroom, so foreign envoys could attend the Emperor at their mutual convenience. Above it flapped, fluttered, or simply hung the emblems of twoscore nations, tribes, factions, and other political entities less easily defined.

The courtyard, most of the time a pleasant open place, was full of splintery benches and tables hastily made by throwing boards over trestles. The benches were full of feasters and the tables piled high with food. Except for an unlucky handful who had drawn sentry duty, all the regiment was there.

Roast pork, beef, mutton, and goat were the main courses, eked out with fowl and the fish and other seafood so easily available in the city. The Videssians present gave everything a liberal dousing with a spicy sauce that some men of the regiment decided to try.

"What is this, anyway?" Fletcher asked one Videssian as he chewed a bite of beef annointed with the stuff.

"You don't know?" the Videssian asked, amazed. "It's garum."

"Garum?" Fletcher frowned. "What goes into it?"

"It's made from fish. They make it by salting down fish innards in pots open to the air. When the fish are fully ripe, a liquid forms above them, which is then drawn off and bottled."

Fletcher immediately looked a bit green, and quickly gulped down some wine. Then he shoved his plate away, saying, "I don't think I'm hungry any more." By the way other men who had partaken of the garum eyed their plates, they felt much the same way. The Videssians were only too glad keep most of it for themselves.

Wine, ale, and mead flowed like water; brandy was there, but was less common due to scarcity despite James' efforts to up its production. Andrew found he liked thick, dark ale the Videssians brewed. But when he mentioned that to Hemond nearby, it was the islander's turn for surprise. "This bilgewater?" he exclaimed. "You should come to the Duchy, my friend, where you drink your ale with a fork."

Nearby sat the envoy from far northwestern Shaumkhiil; the Arshaum had given his name as Arigh, son of Arghun. The night was mild, but he wore a wolfskin jacket and a hat of red fox. His hard, lean frame and the lithe, controlled intensity of his movements reminded Keane of a hawk. Until now he had been too busy with heroic eating to say much, but the talk of drink gained his interest.

"Ale, mead, wine-what difference does it make?" he said. He spoke Videssian fairly well, with a clipped, quick accent in perfect accord with the way he carried himself. "Kavass, now, is a man's drink, made from his horses' milk and with a kick as strong."

The stuff sounded horrible, Andrew thought. He also noticed that Arigh's derisive comment about the drinks before him was not keeping him from downing quite a lot of them. That was especially true whenever a bottle of brandy made it within his reach.

At the rate food was vanishing, it was no easy task to keep the tables loaded. Almost as if they were a bucket brigade battling a fire, serving girls made never-ending trips from the kitchens with full platters and pitchers and back to them with empties. Here and there, pats and pinches brought as many laughs as squeaks of outrage.

More and more drink was fetched as time went by, and less and less food. Never sedate to begin with, the feast grew increasingly boisterous. Most of the Khatrishers that had arrived with the troop of cavalry seemed to have the outspoken cheeriness of Taso Vones. Soldiers from Videssos and its neighbors, as well as the men of the regiment, learned each other's curses, tried to sing each other's songs, and clumsily essayed the other's dances. A couple of fights broke out, but they were instantly quelled by the squabblers' neighbors-good feelings ran too high tonight to give way to quarrels.

Eventually most of the tables and benches disappeared. Eager Namdaleni put in their place circles chalked on the ground for dice-throwing, wheels of fortune, boards for tossing darts, others for hurling knives, a wide cleared space with a metal basin set in the center for throwing the dregs from winecups, and other games of skill or chance that Andrew didn't immediately recognize. In a few spots were men from the regiment who had had decks of cards with them when they set out from City Point, and were showing enthusiastic audiences how to play poker.

Andrew rummaged in his own pocket to see what money he had. It was about as he had thought-some bronze pieces of irregular size and weight, some rather better silver, and half a dozen goldpieces, each about the size of his thumbnail. The older, more worn coins were fine gold, but the newer ones were made pale by an admixture of silver or blushed red with copper. With its revenues falling, the government had resorted to cheapening the currency. All its gold coinage, of whatever age, was nominally of equal value, but in the markets and shops the old pieces took a man further.

He had learned Videssian rules at dice during the long winter at Imbros. They used two dice, and a pair of ones-"Phos' little suns," they called them-was the local goal. You kept the dice until you threw their opposite-"the demons," a double six-in which case you lost. There were side bets on which you would roll first, how many throws you would keep the dice, and anything else an ingenious gambler could find to bet on.

The first time the dice came his way, Andrew threw the suns three times before the demons turned up to send the little bone cubes on to the Khatrisher at his left. That gave him a bigger stake to play with, one he promptly lost in his next turn with the bones-on his very first cast, twin sixes stared balefully up at him.

His luck was mixed; he would win a little before dropping it again, get behind and make it up. His area of attention shrank to the chalked circle befor him-the money in it, the dice spinning through, the men's hands reaching in to pick up the cubes, gather in the winnings, or lay new bets.

Then, suddenly, the hand that took the dice was not masculine at all, but a smooth, slim-wristed lady's hand with painted nails and an emerald ring on the forefinger. Startled, Andrew looked up to see Komitta Rhangavve, with Thorisin Gavras beside her. The Sevastokrator wore ordinary trousers and tunic and could have been in the game an hour ago, for all Keane had noticed.

Komitta slightly misinterpreted his surprise. Smiling prettily at him, she said, "I know it's against custom, but I so love to play myself. Do you mind?" Her tone warned that he had better not.

That he really didn't care made it easier. "Of course not," he replied.

She won twice in quick succession, letting her stake ride each time. When her third series of rolls ended by wiping her out, she angrily hurled the dice away and cursed with unladylike fluency. The gamblers snickered, while Andrew had to stop himself from gaping. Someone found a new pair of dice and from that moment she was an accepted member of the circle.

With his landed wealth, Thorisin could easily have run the other dicers from the game by betting more than they could afford to cover. Remembering his hundred goldpiece bet with Vardanes Sphrantzes, Andrew knew the Sevastokrator wasn't averse to playing for high stakes. But, matched against men of limited means, he was content to risk now a goldpiece, now two, or sometimes a handful of silver. He took his wins and losses as seriously as if he were playing for provinces-whatever he did, he liked to do well. He was a canny gambler, too; before long, a good-sized pile of gold and silver lay before him.

"Did you get that at swordpoint, or are they losing on purpose to curry favor with you?" someone asked the Sevastokrator, and Andrew was amazed to see Mavrikios Gavras standing over his brother. The Emperor was no more regally dressed than the Sevastokrator and attended only by a pair of Haloga bodyguards.

"You don't know skill when you see it," Thorisin retorted. "Hah!" He raked in another stake as the Namdalener across from him rolled the demons.

"Move over and let your elder show you how it's done. I've been listening to accountants since this morning and I've had a gutful of, 'I'm most sorry, your Imperial Majesty, but I cannot advise that at the present time.' Bah! Sometimes I think court ceremonial is a slow poison the bureaucrats invented to bore usurpers to death so they can sneak back into power themselves." He grinned at Andrew. "My daughter insists it's otherwise, but I don't believe her anymore." With a murmured, "Thank you, sweetheart," he took a cup from a passing girl. The lass whirled in surprise as she realized whom she'd served.

The Gavrai, naturally, were on opposite sides of every bet. As he'd been doing most of the evening, Thorisin won several times in a row after his brother sat down. "Go back to your pen-pushers and leave dicing to people who understand it," he said. "You'll get a fart from a dead man before you collect a copper from me."

Mavrikios snorted. "Even a blind hog stumbles across an acorn now and then. There we go!" he exclaimed. Andrew had just thrown suns, and Thorisin had bet against him. The Emperor turned to his brother, palm out. With a shrug, Thorisin passed the stake to him.

Andrew soon decided these were two men who shouldn't gamble against each other. Both were such intense competitors that they took losing personally, and the good humor in their banter quickly disappeared. They were tight-lipped with concentration on the dice; their bets against each other were far greater than any others round the circle. Thorisin's earlier winnings vanished. When Mavrikios rolled the suns yet another time, his brother had to reach into his pouch to pay.

Mavrikios stared at the coins he produced. "What's this?" he said, flinging half of them to the ground. "You'd pay me with money from Yezd?"

Thorisin shrugged once more. "They look like gold to me, and finer than what we mint these days, for that matter." He scooped them up and tossed them far into the crowd. Glad cries said they weren't lost for long. Seeing his brother's expression, Thorisin said, "If it won't pay my scot, what good is money to me?" Mavrikios slowly turned a dull red.

Everyone who saw or heard the exchange between the two brothers did his best to pretend he had not. Nevertheless, the camaraderie the dicing circle had enjoyed was shattered, and Andrew wasn't sorry to see the game break up a few minutes later. It could only be bad when the Emperor's brother showed him up in public, and he knew the story would only grow in the telling.

* * *

Climbing a stairway in the great building that housed the Grand Courtroom-the opposite side of the building from Nephon Khoumnos' workplace-Andrew wondered how much the story had grown in the past few days. Ahead of him on the stair was the thin clerk who had brought Keane the invitation to this meeting, and ahead of _him_ was a destination to which Andrew had never thought to be bidden-the offices of Vardanes Sphrantzes.

"This way, if you please," the clerk said, turning to his left as he reached the top of the stairs. He led Andrew past a series of large rooms, through whose open doors Keane could see whole companies of men busy with stylus and waxed tablet, pen, ink, and paper-the last made him smile-and abacuses with which skilled Videssians could calculate incredibly fast. Watching the bureaucrats at work in this nerve center of Empire, Andrew couldn't deny that power dwelt here.

A pair of stocky nomads from the plains of Pardraya stood sentry at the door the clerk was approaching. Their faces, blank with boredom before, turned alert when they spied him, and smiles broke out when they recognized the Yankee behind him.

"That brandy drink is good," one of them said to Andrew.

"Stand aside, will you?" the clerk snapped. "You'll win no thanks for interfering in the Sevastos' business."

The Khamorth gave way. Andrew nodded to them as he stepped past, and the plainsmen grinned back.

Keane readied himself as he walked into Sphrantzes' office. When the functionary who led him announced his name, he nodded to him respectfully enough. No reason to make things worse than they could be on purpose, he thought.

"Come in, come in, you are most welcome," the Sevastos said. As always, his smooth, deep voice revealed nothing but what he wanted in it; at the moment, a cultured affability.

Before Andrew could fully focus his suspicions on Sphrantzes, the office's other occupant, a gangling, scraggly-bearded fellow in his early twenties, bounced up from his seat to shake his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, truly a pleasure!" he exclaimed, adding, "I've heard so much of your men and their weapons. I am eager to see how you wage crimson-handed war. I am certain the ground will be a thirsty sponge to drink the enemy's blood!"

"Er-yes," Keane muttered, at a loss to reconcile this unwarlike-seeming youth with his gore-filled talk.

Vardanes Sphrantzes coughed drily. "One of the reasons I asked you here, my outland friend, was to present you to my nephew, the spatharios Ortaias Sphrantzes. Since your arrival, he's done nothing but pester me to arrange the meeting."

While spatharios had the literal meaning of "sword-bearer," it was a catch-all title, often with little more real meaning than "aide." In young Ortaias' case, that seemed just as well; he looked as if the effort of toting a sword would be too much for him.

He was, though, nothing if not an enthusiast. "I watched you practices with you _rifles_ and _cannons_ ," he said, pronouncing the foreign words carefully. "In his _Art of Generalship_ Mindes Kalokyres recommends footsoldiers for rough terrain and strongly implies only cavalry is proper on level ground. It's a great pity he is a century in his grave; I should have liked to hear his comments on how your weapons affect matters."

"That would be interesting, I'm sure," Andrew agreed politely, wondering how much of Ortaias' speech he was understanding. The young noble spoke very quickly; this, coupled with his affected accent and his evident love for long words, made following his meaning a trial for someone with Keane's imperfect grasp of Videssian.

"Kalokyres is our greatest commentator on things military," Ortaias' uncle explained courteously. "Do sit down, both of you," he urged. "Keane, take some brandy if you will. I must admit, your man James had made quite a name for himself with this extraordinary drink."

As he sipped politely, Andrew eyed the Sevastos carefully as he drank with him. The obvious effort Sphrantzes was making to put him at his ease only made him wonder further what the real object of the meeting might be.

Whatever it was, the Sevastos was in no hurry to get around to it. He spoke with charm and with bits of gossip that had crossed his path in the past few days and did not spare his fellow bureaucrats. "There are those," he remarked, "who think the mark for a thing in a ledger is the thing itself." Raising his cup to his lips, he went on, "It takes but a taste to see how foolish they are."

Andrew reluctantly agreed, but noted how possessively Sphrantzes' hand curled over the polished surface of the cup.

The Sevastos' office was more richly furnished than Mavrikios Gavras' private chambers, with wall hangings of silk brocade shot through with gold and silver threads and upholstered couches and chairs whose ebony arms were inlaid with ivory and semiprecious stones. Yet the dominant impression was not one of sybaritic decadence, but rather of a man who truly loved his comforts without being ruled by them.

On earth Andrew knew of the popular hobby in Britain of ornate aquaria in cast-iron frames that started after the Great Exhibition back in '51. The decoration on Sphrantzes' desk was of similar kind-a globular tank of clear glass with several small, brightly colored fish darting through waterplants rooted in gravel. In a strange way, it was soothing to watch. Keane's eyes kept coming back to it, and Sphrantzes gazed fondly at his little pets in their transparent enclosure.

He saw Andew looking at them. "One of my servants has the duty of catching enough gnats, flies, and suchlike creatures to keep them alive. He's certain I've lost my wits, but I pay him enough that he doesn't say so."

By this time Keane had decided Sphrantzes' summons masked nothing more sinister than a social call. He was beginning to muster excuses for leaving when the Sevastos remarked, "There are a good many innovations your men seem to have brought with you."

"Indeed yes! Most astonishing!" Ortaias said enthusiastically. "The destructive power of your weapons is legendary. When linked to the specialized infantry skills you Yankees possess-"

His uncle, apparently knowing how his nephew could go on, cleared his throat.

"Your pardon," Ortaias said, flushing. Thrown off his stride, he finished with the simplest sentence Keane had heard from him. "You'll fight really well for us!"

"I hope so," Andrew replied. Interested by Vardanes' mention of his mens' projects, he decided to stay a bit longer. Maybe the Sevastos would be forthcoming after all.

"My nephew is right," the elder Sphrantzes said. "Your weapons and, indeed, all the other innovations your men have introduced are quite intriguing. It is my hope that you and your men will serve us well. There is too much strife within our army, too much talk of native troops as opposed to mercenaries. Every soldier is a mercenary, but with some, paymaster and king are one and the same."

Andrew remained expressionless and didn't reply. The Sevastos' last statement, as far as he was concerned, was nonsense, and dangerous nonsense at that. Nor did he think Sphrantzes believed it any more than he did-whatever else he was, Vardanes Sphrantzes was no fool.

He also wondered how Vardanes was using his "we" and "us." Did he speak as head of the bureaucratic faction, as Sevastos of all the Empire, or with the royal first person plural? He wondered if Sphrantzes knew himself.

"It's regrettable but true," the Sevastos was saying, "that foreign-born troops do not have the fairest name in the Empire. One reason is that they've so often had to be used against rebels from the back of beyond, men who, even on the throne, find no more dignity than they did in the hayseed robbers' nests from which they sprung." For the first time, his disdain rang clear.

"They have no breeding!" Ortaias Sphrantzes was saying. "None! Why, Mavrikios Gavras' great-grandfather was a goatherd, while we Sphrantzai-" The cold stare Vardanes sent his way stopped him in confusion.

"Forgive my nephew once more, I beg you," the Sevastos said smoothly. "He speaks with youth's usual exaggeration. His Imperial Majesty's family has been of noble rank for nearly two centuries." But by the irony still in his voice, he didn't find that long at all.

The conversation drifted back toward triviality, this time for good. A curiously indecisive meeting, Andrew thought on his way back to the barracks. He had expected the Sevastos to show more of his mind but, on reflection, there was no reason why he should do so to a man he felt to be of the opposite side. Then too, with one slip of the tongue his nephew probably had revealed a good deal more than the senior Sphrantzes wanted known.

Two other things occurred to Keane. The first was that Taso Vones was a lucky acquaintance. The little Khatrisher had an uncanny knowledge of the various affairs in the capital and was willing to share them. The second was a conclusion he reached while wondering why he distrusted Vardanes Sphrantzes so much. It was utterly in character, he decided, for the Sevastos to delight in keeping small, helpless creatures in a transparent cage.

* * *

Awakening in the hour before dawn, Andrew stretched sore muscles as he stepped out of the cabin he was using.

It had been four months since the regiment had arrived in Videssos the city and been enrolled in the ranks of the Imperial Guards. Was his war still going on back home, or was it over by now, and Lincoln working instead on binding up the wounds of a nation?

Funny, he realized, he was thinking less and less of home in these last two months. They'd been remarkably peaceful, and with that peace the men had turned to their various projects with a will.

In this quiet time, which Andrew had come to love so much, he walked among the newly constructed buildings listening and thinking. The regiment was as happy as could be expected. The young single men had seemed to adjust the easiest. Two had already asked for the right to marry, and he now found himself in the uncomfortable role of being something of a father, telling them to wait and let the courtship develop a little longer.

Among the hundred and fifty or so men who were married, some with children back home, it had been far worse. A day did not go by when a grim-faced soldier did not come to him asking if there was any hope of seeing Maine again. He had kept up the lie, offering assurances which he doubted would be true, hoping only that in time they would come to accept whatever strange fate it was that had cast them here.

Despite Emil's warnings, several of the men did go to whorehouses in the city or solicited with the prostitutes who frequented around Fort Lincoln, the name they gave their new camp. More than once Andrew had seen a handful of the married men in such company. He could not find it in his heart to condemn them, realizing they were trying to kill their pain.

There'd been three suicides, all of them married men, despondent over their fate. Ten others were now sitting quietly throughout the day, talking softly to themselves, or to imagined loved ones. Kathleen treated them with loving care, hoping to lure them back, but in his heart Andrew knew there was little hope; they had found a gentle world in their thoughts and would most likely dwell there for the rest of their lives. Other such men found the will to go on, one even telling the colonel, "My wife would want me to go on, sir. That's what keeps me going. It's hard but we have to face our situation and make the best we can of it."

He pushed the thoughts aside as reveille echoed in the morning air. From the cabins curses and groans cut through the early morning, and Andrew smiled at the familiar sounds. He'd always found those who could not wake up easily to be a source of amusement, realizing that to such men, a man who could awake instantly, feeling refreshed, was somehow unnatural.

The camp came alive with morning routines, which he watched and participated in with quiet satisfaction. With breakfast soon out of the way, the various Videssians and Yankees set off to their appointed tasks. New projects had sprung up almost overnight. Company B was up in the northern Videssian province of Kubrat by the Astris helping an established quarry increase it's limestone production, while H Company was nearly finished with building its first raft for the ferry service to support the operation.

Roused from his thoughts, Andrew looked up to see Captain Mina of E Company standing before him expectantly. He looked especially dapper this morning, his dark thin mustache freshly waxed, his uniform neatly pressed.

"Well then, John, let's go see what you've got."

Together the two strolled out of the camp constructed for the project's workers, and to what was called the Mill Stream Road and started up the hill. Andrew found it amazing how far back the forest was retreating because of the unending harvest of wood. Rounding the first bend in the road they came past a pile of fresh-cut boards, still oozing resin. A loud continual rasping cut the morning air.

Smiling, Andrew paused for a moment to watch the sawmill in operation. If anything could remind him of Maine it was this. The building had yet to be framed, the rough logs of its skeleton still bare to the weather. There was a good head of water this morning coming down the chute and the ten-foot overshoot wheel turned easily. The driveshaft was a beam engaged directly to the wheel. From there a leather drive belt provided power to a five-foot circular sawblade, on the main floor of the building.

Logs were snaked into the back of the mill, straight out of the pond which was still growing and spreading out in the narrow gorge behind the mill. Andrew watched as a team of men guided a log onto the cutting table, strapped it into place, and started to push it forward. A shower of sawdust suddenly kicked up as the blade bit in with a rasping whine.

"How goes it this morning, Houston?"

The captain turned around beaming, and as usual his excitement over this pet project was unlimited.

"It's a-growing, sir," Tracy said, beckoning for Andrew to come in and have a look around. "We're rigging up a power winch line off the wheel," and leading the way he started down the ladder to the lower floor. The clatter of the wheel and the shrieking of the blade echoed like thunder as Houston pointed about and shouted.

"One of my boys is almost finished cutting the blocks out now. If we had the right tools I'd have it done by now. But Dunlevy says he's too busy on other projects, and we should be happy about getting the blade, and that's that."

Andrew could see Houston wanted his support to shift the blacksmith back under his command, and smiling, he shook his head.

"Dunlevy gave you your blade-now he's under John here for a while," and John smiled with good-natured rivalry at his friend.

"All right. Well, at least I can tell the boys I tried," Tracy said with mock dejection. "Anyhow, we'll rig up a winch here off the main driveshaft, and when we need a new log, we hook the cable on, I push down on this lever here, which engages the gears, and in it comes, saving my boys a lot of sweat. The tough one, which won't be finished for a week yet, is mounting the cutting bed to a sprocket. Once that's in, then the boys won't have to feed the log in by hand. The sprocket will simply push the bed, with the log strapped to it, and a nice even plank will be cut out easy as pie."

"Good work," Andrew said enthusiastically, clapping Houston on the shoulder.

"Now if only I could get all the water I need. You John," and he pointed an accusing finger at Captain Mina. "That dam of yours is taking forever to fill."

"Look, do you want my products on not?" John said quickly. "You need me if you want to expand this second-fiddler operation."

"Second fiddler is it!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," Andrew said, holding up his hand. "We both need each other here, remember. I want John's operation with full water as quickly as possible-we all need what he can produce. Once that's done, you'll have all the water you need. All right?"

"You heard him, John," Tracy replied. "Once that dam of yours is filled, don't hold back on me. We've all got to use the stream."

"All right, all right, but colonel, sir, my men are waiting for you. Besides, Private Ferguson is just dying to show you his new plans."

Refusing a hand, Andrew made his way back up the ladder and leaving the sawmill continued up the hill. They soon came upon the latest addition to the mill stream's industries. The furnace and attached forge were small, with only a ten-foot wheel for now. But Mina was already talking about expanding it and building a great twenty-foot wheel.

Smoke was billowing out from a brick chimney, and with each turning of the wheel there was a loud rush of sparks as the bellows driven by the waterwheel pumped in a fresh draft of air.

This project had been the most complex, requiring in one way or another the labor of over three hundred to get it ready. Nearly a hundred woodcutters had been busy felling wood for weeks, and following the lead of several charcoal makers from the north country of Maine had soon cooked up hundreds of bushels of charcoal of at least passable quality. Apothecaries and wizards in Videssos both used sulfur and saltpeter in their potion and concoctions. The regiement was able to purchase an ample supply of both for gunpowder production.

Even the powder mill and refinery for fulminate of mercury were up and running. Soon, Mina assured Andrew, they would have enough cartridges and percussion caps to engage in regular target practice without fear of depleting their ammunition stores.

The men of B Company were working as hard as they could to expand the limestone operations further north, cutting limestone with the few tools available, crushing it with hammers to serve as a flux which would draw off the nonmetallic parts of the ore to form a brittle glasslike slag.

Finally there'd been the mining of the ore. A site had been located farther up in the Paristrian Mountains, and thirty more men had labored intensively with Videssian miners to cut the ore into workable chunks and then haul it back down.

Others had worked at building the dam, which now was nearly twelve feet high and would finally rise to twenty-two feet to power the larger wheel already planned to replace the temporary ten-foot one now in place.

Still others had helped to fashion the bellows from two whole cowhides, and the huge earthen ramp to the top of the furnace, where the crushed lime, charcoal, and ore were dumped in for the cooking-down to the final product.

"We're ready when you are, sirs," one of Mina's men called as the officers approached.

Today's runoff would be modest; Mina had calculated it to be about five hundred pounds of iron, which as soon as it had cooled would be turned over to Dunlevy and his crew of apprentices.

As Andrew looked around he realized that a good portion of the regiment was there, since so many had participated in getting this project started. Their pride and excitement was evident in their looks of eager anticipation as Andrew approached.

"Colonel, sir," a grimy private said, stepping forward and saluting, "me and the boys working this here mill would appreciate a couple words from you."

Andrew looked over at John, who smiled broadly. It was a common joke with the regiment that the professor, whose job before the war had been talking, somehow got tongue-tied when asked to give a speech to the men.

Andrew looked around at the men and smiled good-naturedly.

"I'm proud of all of you," he said. "Proud that you're Union men tested in battle, the finest regiment in the Army of the Potomac," and with that the men cheered at the mention of that most famed army of the war.

"I'm proud as well that you're Mainers, the best from the finest state in all New England," and with that an appreciative growl went up from the ranks, peppered with witticisms about their neighboring states to the south.

"This mill will be the foundation from which other projects will spring that will be the envy of this world."

He looked about and suddenly realized that he had unwittingly slighted the men working on other projects.

"Not to mention the sawyers, miners, and heaven knows what other projects you boys are cooking up," he said hurriedly, and the crowd laughed appreciatively.

"All right, then, enough of the speechifying and let's see what we've got here."

With a ceremonial flourish, John stepped forward and handed Andrew an iron pole and pointed at the clay plug at the base of the kiln. Feeling somewhat clumsy with his one hand, Andrew grasped the pole and thrust it at the plug. After several attempts the clay broke, and as if by magic a hot river of metal poured out into the rough troughs laid out in a bed of sand at the foot of the furnace.

A loud cheer went up as hundreds of pounds of molten metal flowed out, shimmering and sparkling, the heat so intense that Andrew held his hand up to protect his face from the glare.

Beaming with pride, John could not contain his excitement and jumped up and down, until the runoff finally trickled to a stop.

"All right, load her up again!" John shouted. "Let's have a ton of this beautiful stuff by tomorrow!"

John looked around and finally spotted the man he wanted. "Ferguson, come over here."

From out of the crowd, a slight form appeared, smiling nervously. His glasses made his pale-blue eyes appear owl-like, giving the man an almost ridiculous appearance. Andrew had always liked the man, even though more often than not he was in the infirmary, the hard rigors of campaigning simply too much for his body. Several times he had expected to see Jim's name stricken from the roll, but a week later he'd come dragging back, ever eager to try again. He had offered Jim an easier job behind the lines with the quartermaster, but the private had always refused.

Here, however, he had come into his own, his student days studying engineering before the war now making him one of the more valuable men in the regiment.

"Shall we take a look, private?" John asked.

His head bobbing up and down, Jim pointed to a rough cabin next to the mill and led the way, the two officers following.

Stepping into the darkness, Jim lit a couple lamps. Pointing over to a table, Ferguson rolled out a sheet of paper.

Andrew leaned over the diagrams and could not help but shake his head.

"Are you serious, Jim?" Andrew asked quietly.

"Of course I am, sir. I'm always serious about such things."

"But a railroad?"

"Why not?" Mina replied enthusiastically. "Ferguson here's got it all figured out. It'll be a narrow-gauge line of two and a half feet, saving a lot of effort on grading and tracks. The line would start at Imbros and come up to the camp and then up Mill Stream Road, then continue on up past here and then to where the ore supply is. Since it would be a light gauge we could use wooden tracks covered with iron straps to get started. I figure we'll only need twenty tons of iron a mile that way.

"The line could haul lime flux, bricks, anything we wanted, from Imbros on up. At the top it could haul charcoal and ore down to the mill, and then run lumber and finished iron back to Imbros again."

"It'll take a lot of work," Andrew said quietly.

"I've got that figured already," John replied quickly. "I was talking to Vourtzes only yesterday about it-he claims he's got some men that'd make excellent gang bosses. There'll also be several landholders who'd loan out their peasants as laborers. We could pay for them with the regiment's half of the lumber and some of the Franklin stoves I'm planning to turn out from the foundry."

Shaking his head, Andrew looked back at Ferguson. "What about power? You'll use horses, I take it?"

Ferguson broke into a grin.

"Steam power, sir-a regular locomotive," and as he spoke he rolled out a set of plans for the engine.

"How in heaven's name do you plan to pull that one off?"

"Sir, we have two engineers in the regiment, Kevin Malady and Kurt Bowen, both of I Company, and a couple of firemen as well. I've already been over the _Ogunquit's_ engine from one end to the other, and I must confess to having learned a little something about such things before I joined the army.

"We'll need to expand the foundry, putting in a couple of tilt hammers, an engine lathe and a reheat furnace for steel. I figured it out, and inside a month they could be operating, along with a couple of flat cars and hoppers, and the MI&V Railroad will be ready to run."

"MI&V?" Andrew asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Maine, Imbros, and Videssos Railroad."

"Videssos?"

"Why, of course, sir-that's the next step, to run a line straight down into downtown Videssos."

"One thing at a time, Ferguson, one thing at a time."

"Then you approve?" Mina asked excitedly.

"All right, I approve. But no more than forty men from the regiment working on this-the rest of the labor comes through Vourtzes. The first priority on labor now goes to the making of more tools. Then comes expanding Dunlevy's smithy shop with your trip-hammers, then the expansion of the foundry here.

"Can you manage that, Mina?"

"Of course, sir."

"All right, then. John, I'm appointing you coordinator of labor for the various operations involving ironworking and the railroad, but you're not to pull men away from Houston, or he'll be raising hell. Is that settled?"

"Of course, sir, and thank you, sir."

"I've been away from the city too long as it is, gentlemen, and I'd better start back. Good day to you."

Walking out the door, he turned quickly and looked back. Mina and Ferguson were exuberantly slapping each other on the back. Shaking his head, Andrew started back down the trail. They'd most likely been planning this one for weeks, thinking they'd have a tough sell job.

Frankly, he loved railroads and was already eager for the first ride on the MI&V.

* * *

Of all the people they came to know in the capital, the regiment seemed to blend best with the Namdaleni. It embarrassed Keane, who rather liked the Emperor and knew the men of the Duchy would cheerfully gut Videssos if they ever saw they had their chance.

Maybe it was simply that the Namdaleni were less reserved than Videssians and more willing to meet the Yankees halfway. Whatever the reason, the regiment's soldiers were always welcome in taverns that catered to the easterners, and traffic flowed between the islanders' barracks and those housing the regiment. Hemond's wife Helvis had become a good friend to Kathleen, and the two women frequently visited each other's quarters and went to market together.

Andrew worried his soldiers' fondness for the men of the Duchy would undermine the friendships he'd built up with the Videssians. But there was no getting around it-Yankee and Namdalener took to one another like long-separated relatives.

One morning, Hemond came to invite several of the regiment's officers to that day's Namdalener drill. Andrew had seen Hemond and other Namdaleni observe the regiment's own drills, and figured this was just the men of the Duchy's idea to show off their own specialized skills.

A few Khamorth were practicing archery at the drill field's edge. Their short, double-curved bows sent arrow after arrow _whacking_ into the straw-stuffed hides they had set up as targets. They and the party Andrew led were the only non-Namdaleni on the field that day.

At one end stood a long row of hay bales, at the other, almost equally still, a line of mounted islanders. The men of the Duchy were in full caparison. Streamers of bright ribbon fluttered from their helms, their lances, and their big horses' trappings. Each wore over his chain mail shirt a surcoat of a color to match his streamers. A hundred lances went up in salute as one when the easterners caught sight of the Yankees.

"Ah, now there's a brave show," O'Donald said admiringly. Andrew merely smiled; that thought had already occurred to him. He resolved to judge it on that basis if he could.

The commander of the Namdaleni barked an order. Their lances swung down, again in unison. A hundred glittering leaf-shaped points of steel, each tipping a lance twice the length of a man, leveled at the bales of hay a furlong from them. Their leader left them thus for a long dramatic moment, then shouted the command that sent them hurtling forward.

Like an avalanche, they started slowly. The heavy horses they rode were not quick to build momentum, what with their own bulk and the heavily armored men atop them. But they gained a trifle at every bound and were at full stride before halfway to their goal. The earth rolled like a kettledrum under their thundering hooves; their iron-shod feet sent great clods of dirt and grass flying skywards.

Andrew tried to imagine himself standing in a hay bale's place, watching the horses thunder down on him until he could see their nostrils flaring crimson, staring at the steel that would tear his life away. A chill went over him at the thought of it.

When lances, horses, and riders smashed through them, the bales simply ceased to be. Hay was trampled underfoot, flung in all directions, and thrown high into the air. The Namdaleni brought their horses to a halt; they began picking hay wisps from their mounts' manes and coats and from their own surcoats and hair.

Hemond looked expectantly to Andrew. "Most impressive," Keane replied. "Both as a spectacle and as a show of fighting power." His praise made the Namdalener grin, and the day, the islanders agreed, was a great success.

But the Yankees were in fact less overawed than they let the Namdaleni think. "They're rugged, but a couple of good musket volleys would break their charge right up," Hans said gruffly.

Andrew looked back to the mounted warriors in shining armor, and shook his head. It wasn't that Hans didn't have a point; more, he felt a tinge of sadness that what they were bringing to this world would wash away such a proud sight.

While Mavrikios readied his stroke to put an end to Yezd once and for all, Andrew was surprised to note that Avshar made frequent visits to the Grand Courtroom for imperial audiences. He hadn't thought the Yezda ambassador would be one to play the peacemaker.

However, Yezd itself did not stand idle. As always, there was a flow of wild nomads down off the steppe, over the Yegird River, and into the northwest of what had been the land of Makuran. Thus had the Yezda entered that land half a century before. Khagan Wulghash, Andrew thought, was nobody's fool. Instead of letting the newcomers settle and disrupt his state, he shunted them eastward against Videssos, urging them on with promises of fighting, loot, and the backing of the Yezda army.

The nomads, more mobile than the foe they faced, slid through Vaspurakan's mountain valleys and roared into the fertile plains beyond them, spreading atrocity, mayhem, and rapine. The raiders were like so much water; if checked at one spot, they flowed someplace else, always probing for weak spots and all too often finding them.

Despite the calamities pouring into the westlands, still Avshar remained in Videssos the city. His imperial audiences became less and less frequent until he barely showed himself outside of the Hall of Ambassadors. Knowing how men in similar stations were usually sent back to their home countries when war broke out on earth, Andrew wondered why Avshar remained, and even more why the Emperor hadn't expelled him.

High summer approached and still Mavrikios marshalled his forces. Local levies in the west fought the Yezda without support from the host building in the capital. None of the regiment's officers could understand why Mavrikios, certainly a man of action, did not move. "He might as well be McClellan," Hans grumbled.

When Andrew put the question to Neilos Tzimiskes, the soldier replied, "Too soon can be worse than too late, you know."

"Six weeks ago-even three weeks ago-I would have agreed. But if matters aren't taken in hand soon, there won't be much of an Empire left to save."

"Believe me, my friend, things aren't as simple as they seem." But when Andrew tried to get more from Tzimiskes than that, Neilos retreated into vague promises that matters would turn out for the best. It wasn't long before Keane decided he knew more than he was willing to say.

The next day, Andrew decided to ask Phostis Apokavkos. He was Videssian, and was one of the better informed individuals in the entire city due to his reporting. His friendships with the regiment, he reasoned, might make him more open than Tzimiskes.

"Do I know why you're not out on campaign? You mean to tell me you don't?" Apokavkos stared at the colonel. He plucked at his beard, then replied, "Answer to your question's a simple thing: Mavrikios isn't about to leave the city until he's sure he'll still be Emperor when he gets home."

Andrew sighed and shook his head. Like the Byzantines indeed, he thought. The faction politics wouldn't even subside with a foreign foe pressing hard at the border.

"You're getting the idea, all right," Apokavkos said, seeing Keane's reluctant agreement. "Besides, if you doubt me, how do you explain Mavrikios staying in the city last year and not going out to fight the Yezda? Things were even tighter then than they are now; he plain didn't dare leave."

The Videssian reporter's comment made clear something Keane had puzzled over for some time. No wonder Mavrikios looked so bleak when he admitted his earlier inability to move against Yezd! The past year had seen the Empire's power vastly increase, though its unity still seemed anything but certain even in the face of the Yezda threat. Andrew better understood Mavrikios' pouched, red-veined eyes; it was strange he dared sleep at all.

That power and unity did not walk hand in hand in Videssos Andrew had confirmed a few mornings later. Phostis' report made him thankful Hawthorne had befriended the Videssian, making him well-disposed towards the regiment.

Andrew had been going over a message sent down from the mills near Imbros, considering requests from the Presbyterians and Methodists to build churches at the camp, when Phostis showed up and Andrew waved for him to sit.

"If it didn't have you in it, too, I likely wouldn't tell you this," Apokavkos said, "but I think it'd be smart for your men to walk small the next few days. There's trouble brewing against the damned easterners, and too many in town put you and them in the same wagon."

"Against the Namdaleni?" Andrew asked. At Phostis' nod, he said, "But why? They've fought with the Empire, true, but every one of them in the city now is here to fight Yezd."

"There's too many of 'em here, and they're too proud of themselves, the swaggering rubes." Phostis' friendship with the Yankees did not stretch to the men of the Duchy. "Not only that, they've taken over half a dozen shrines for their own services, the damned heretics. Next thing you know, they'll start trying to convert decent folk to their ways. That won't do."

Andrew suppressed an urge to scream in frustration. "If the followers of Phos as sure victor over evil fight those who believe in Phos' Wager, then the only winners will be Skotos-worshippers," he pointed out.

Phostis replied, "I don't know but what I'd sooner see Wulghash ruling in Videssos than Duke Tomond of Namdalen."

Giving up, Andrew went off to pass the warning to Hemond. The barracks of the Namdaleni were, if anything, even more comfortable than the regiment's quarters. Part of the difference, of course, was that there had been a Namdalener contingent in the Videssian army for many years, and over those years the men of the Duchy had lavished much labor on making their dwelling as homelike as they could.

Because many of the mercenaries spent a large portion of their lives in Videssian service, it was not surprising that they formed families in the capital, either with women of the Empire or with wives or sweethearts who had accompanied them from Namdalen. Their barracks reflected this. Only the bottom floor was a common hall like that of the regiment, a hall in which dwelt warriors who had formed no household. The upper story was divided into apartments of varying size.

Remembering Helvis waving to him from a window above, Andrew climbed the stairway, a wide, straight flight of steps. Thanks to his memory of Helvis, Keane knew about which turns to take through the upper story's corridors. He reached the doorway a helpful islander pointed out and knocked.

"By the Wager!" Hemond exclaimed when he saw who was knocking on the door. "Look who decides to pay us a visit." He grinned and invited the Yankee colonel in, slapping him on the back.

Andrew paused as he saw another Namdaleni sitting with Helvis; he recalled seeing him with Hemond quite a bit. Perhaps an underofficer?

"Ah, yes, you two haven't met, have you?" Hemond remarked. "Andrew, this is Soteric Dosti's son, my second-in-command and Helvis' brother."

Andrew saw the resemblance as soon as their relationship was mentioned. That their coloring was alike was not enough; many Namdaleni had similar complexions. But Soteric had a harder version of Helvis' ample mouth, and his face, like hers, was wide with strong cheekbones. His nose, on the other hand, was prominent enough to make any Videssian proud, where hers was short and straight.

He realized he was staring rudely. "Excuse me. Good to meet you, Soteric."

Andrew and Helvis' brother shook hands. Helvis asked, "Would you care for some wine, or some bread and cheese?" when he was comfortable.

Before he could answer, a boy of about three darted into the living room from the bedchamber beyond. He had Helvis' blue eyes and Hemond's shock of blond hair, and was carrying a tiny wooden sword. "Kill a Yezda!" he announced, swinging his toy blade with three-year-old ferocity.

Hemond caught up his son and swung him into the air. He squealed in glee, dropping his play weapon. "Again!" he said. "Again!" Laughing, Hemond swung him up again, then set him down on the floor.

"And this fierce one is Malric," Hemond said, ruffling the boy's hair. Recalling his brother Johnnie at that age, Keane knew all small children were either going at full tilt or asleep, with next to nothing in between.

Malric looked squarely at Andrew. "You're the one who leads the men with the thunder-flash spears!"

Andrew smiled; that was as apt a description of the regiment's muskets as any he'd heard. "Yes I am."

"Why do you have only one arm?"

"Malric!" Helvis reproached her son, but Andrew held up his hand.

"It's quite all right," he assured the boy's mother, then looked at Malric. "I lost it in a battle I fought in, before I came to Videssos." Malric shrugged, then took off at the same speed he ran in.

Once Malric was gone, they all sipped a while in silence. Finally Soteric put down his wine and looked at Andrew over his steepled fingertips. "You aren't what I thought you'd be," he said accusingly.

"Ah?" To a statement of that sort, no real answer seemed possible. Andrew took another sip of wine.

"Hemond and my sister both claimed you had no patience for the poisonous subtlety the Empire so loves, but I own I didn't believe them. You were too friendly by half with the Videssians and too quick to win the Emperor's trust. But having met you, I see they are right after all."

Andrew smiled thinly, and said, "I'm glad you think so, but in fact my subtlety is so great you take it for frankness."

Soteric flushed as Hemond and Helvis laughed. "I had that coming," Soteric said, smiling wryly.

"You would know better than I," Andrew replied, smiling back.

"So why have you stopped by, my friend?" Hemond asked. "Not that I'm not glad to have you here."

Andrew told him the story he had heard from Phostis Apokavkos. The islander's expression went grim. Soteric, on the other hand, met the news with smoldering eagerness. "Let the rabble come!" he said, smacking fist into palm for emphasis. "We'll clean the bastards out, and it'll give us the excuse we need for war on the Empire. Namdalen will inherit Videssos' mantle soon enough-why not now?"

Andrew stared at him. He knew the men of the Duchy coveted the city and the whole Empire, but Soteric's arrogance struck him as being past sanity. Hemond and Helvis were staring at him, too. As softly as he could, Andrew tried to nudge him back toward sense. "You'll take and hold the capital with six thousand men?" he asked politlely.

"Eight thousand! And some of the Khamorth will surely join us-their sport is plunder."

Hemond coughed and, shaking his head, placed a hand on Soteric's shoulder. "Quite true, I'm sure. And once we've disposed of the rest of the plainsmen, the Emperor's Haloga guards, and the Videssian warriors in the city, why then all we need to do is keep down the whole town."

The Namdalener officer looked at Hemond as Malric would if he'd snapped the boy's toy sword over his knee. Some of the ravening glitter in Soteric's eye faded as he saw Hemond's rejection. He looked to his sister for support, but Helvis would not meet his glance. They were as ardent Namdaleni as Soteric, but too firmly rooted in reality to be swept away by a vision of conquest, no matter how glowing.

"I came to stop a riot, not start a war," Andrew said into the silence. "With Yezd to be dealt with, neither you nor the Empire can afford secondary fights."

"Aye," Hemond agreed, nodding to Andrew.

Soteric stopped to consider that for a bit. The smile on his face had nothing to do with amusement; it was more like a stifled snarl. "What would you have us do?" he asked at last. "Hide our beliefs? Skulk like cowards to keep from firing the rabble? The Videssians have no shame over throwing their creed in our faces. I'd sooner fight than kowtow to the street mob, and damn the consequences, say I!" But mixed with the warrior's pride in his speech was the frustrated realization that the outcome of such a fight would not be what he wished.

"I'm glad you let us know of this, my Yankee friend," Hemond said, "We won't knuckle under, but perhaps a little restraint now could stop trouble later."

"Let the bloody Cocksures show restraint," Soteric snapped, using the Duchy's nickname for the orthodox of Videssos.

Continued contact with the Namdalener's hot temper was beginning to fray Andrew's own. "That's the sort of thing I'm talking about," he said. "Call someone a 'Cocksure' once too often and you can be sure you'll have a brawl on your hands."

Up to this time Helvis had listened to the three men argue without taking much part. Now she said, "It seems to me you're only touching one part of the problem. The city people may like us better if we're less open about some things they don't care for, but what we do can only go so far. If Videssos needs our service, the Emperor-or someone-should make the people know we're important to them and should not be abused."

Hemond grunted agreement, then said, "But who would put their neck on the block for a miserable band of mercenaries?"

It was plain he did not think there was a good answer. Thinking of the government leaders he knew, Andrew didn't find it likely either. Mavrikios or Thorisin Gavras would sacrifice the men of the Duchy without a qualm if they interfered with the great campaign against Yezd. Nephon Khoumnos might sacrifice them anyway, on general principles. True, the Namdaleni were part of the power Vardanes Sphrantzes wielded against the Gavrai, but the Sevastos, Keane was sure, was too unpopular in the city to make his words, even if given, worth much.

But Helvis did have a reply, and one so apt Andrew felt like an idiot for not finding it himself. "What of Balsamon?" she asked. "He strikes me as a good man, and one the Videssians listen to."

"The Cocksures' patriarch?" Soteric said incredulously.

Hemond himself raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Any Videssian blue-robe would send us all to the eternal ice, I think, before he'd lift a finger for us."

"Of most of them I would say that's true, but Balsamon has a different feel to him. He's never harassed us, you know," Helvis said.

"She's right, I think," Andrew said to Hemond and Soteric. He told them of the startling tolerance the prelate of Videssos had shown in the Emperor's chambers.

"Hmm," Hemond said. "It's easy enough to be tolerant in private. Will he do it when it counts? There's the rub."

Soteric rose to his feet. "Well, what are the three of you waiting for? We'd best find out-myself, I'll believe it when I hear it."

The ruthless energy Soteric had wanted to turn on Videssos now was bent against his commander, his sister, and the Yankee colonel. Helvis paused only to pick up her son-"Come on, Malric, we're going to see someone."-and Hemond and Andrew not at all, but they were not quick enough to suit Soteric. Scoffing at Helvis' idea at the same time as he pushed it forward, her brother had her, Hemond and Andrew out of the Namdelener barracks, out of the palace complex, and into the hurly-burly of the city almost before Keane could blink.

The patriarchal residence was in the northern central part of Videssos, on the grounds of Phos' High Temple. Andrew hadn't visited that, but some of his men who had taken a look marveled at its splendor. The High Temple's spires, topped with their gilded domes, were visible throughout the city; the only problem in reaching them was picking the proper path through Videssos' maze of roads, lanes, and alleys. Soteric led the way with assurance.

More by what did not happen than by what did, Andrew got the feel of how unwelcome foreigners had become in the capital. It was as if the city dwellers were trying to pretend they didn't exist. No merchant came rushing out of his shop to importune them, no peddler approached to ply his wares, no small boy came up to offer to lead them to his father's hostel.

Malric was entranced by the colors, sounds, and smells of the city, so different from and so much more exciting than the barracks he was used to. Half the time he walked along among Helvis, Hemond, Soteric, and Andrew, doing his short-legged best to keep up; they carried him the rest of the way, passing him from one to the next. His three constant demands were, "Put me down," "Pick me up," and, most of all, "What's that?" Everything drew the last query: a piebald horse, a painter's scaffold, a prostitute of dubious gender.

"Good question," Hemond chuckled as the quean sauntered past. His son was not listening-a scrawny black puppy with floppy ears had stolen his interest.

The High Temple of Phos sat in lordly solitude at the center of a large enclosed courtyard. Like the area by the palace complex, it was one of the city's main gathering points. At need, lesser priests would speak to the masses assembled outside the Temple while the prelate addressed the smaller, more select audience within.

The residence of the patriarchs of Videssos stood just outside the courtyard. It was a surprisingly unassuming structure; many moderately wealthy traders had larger, more palatial quarters. But the modest building had a feeling of perpetuity to it that the houses of the newly wealthy could not hope to imitate. The very pine trees set round it were gnarled and twisted with age, yet still green and growing.

The door opened before them; a high-ranking ecclesiastic was ushering out a Videssian noble in white linen trousers and a tunic of lime-green silk. "I trust his Sanctity was able to help you, my lord Dragatzes?" the priest asked courteously.

"Yes, I think so," Dragatzes replied, but his black-browed scowl was not encouraging. He strode past Andrew, Hemond, Helvis, and Soteric without seeming to notice them.

Nor did the priest pay them any heed until his gaze, which was following Dragaztes' retreating back, happened to fall on them. "Is there something I can do to help you?" he said. His tone was doubtful; Hemond, Helvis, and Soteric were easy to recognize as Namdaleni, while Andrew himself was quite obviously one of the mysterious group known as Yankees. There was no obvious reason for folk such as them to visit the head of a faith they did not share.

And even after Andrew asked to speak with Balsamon, the priest at the door made no move to step aside. "As you must know, his Sanctity's calendar is crowded. Tomorrow would be better, or perhaps the next day..." Go away and don't bother coming back, Andrew translated.

"Who is it, Gennadios?" the patriarch's voice came from inside the residence. A moment later he appeared beside the other priest, clad not in his gorgeous patriarchal regalia but in a none too clean monk's robe of simple blue wool. Catching sight of the five outside his door, he let loose his rich chuckle. "Well, well, what have we here? Heretics to see me? Most honored, I am sure. Come in, I beg of you." He swept past the spluttering Gennadios to wave them forward.

"But, your Sanctity, in a quarter hours' time you are to see-" Gennadios protested, but the patriarch cut him off.

"Whoever it is, he'll wait. This is a fascinating riddle, don't you think, Gennadios? Why should unbelievers care to see me? Perhaps they wish to convert to our usages. That would be a great gain for Phos' true faith, don't you think? Or perhaps they'll convert _me_ -and wouldn't that be a scandal, now?"

Gennadios gave his superior a sour look, clearly finding his humor in questionable taste. Hemond and Soteric were staring at the patriarch in disbelief, Helvis in delight. Andrew had to smile, too; remembering his last meeting with Balsamon, he knew how much the prelate relished being outrageous.

Malric was in his mother's arms. As she walked by Balsamon, her son reached out for two good handsful of the patriarchal beard. Helvis stopped instantly, as much in alarm at what Balsamon might do as to keep him from being tugged with her.

Her fright must have shown, for the patriarch laughed out loud. "You know, my dear, I don't eat children-at least not lately." He gently detached Malric's hands from their hold. "You thought I was an old billy goat, didn't you?" he said, poking the boy in the ribs. "Didn't you?" Malric nodded, laughing in delight.

"What's your name, son?" the patriarch asked.

"Malric Hemond's son," Malric answered clearly.

"Hemond's son?" Balsamon looked up at Hemond, eyes twinkling. "That would be you, yes? A fine boy you have.

"You must be Helvis, then," he said to Malric's mother. As she nodded, Andrew was impressed-not for the first time-with the patriarch's knowledge and memory of detail. Balsamon turned to Helvis' brother. "I don't think I know you, sir."

"No reason you should," Soteric agreed. "I'm Soteric Dosti's son; Helvis is my sister."

"Very good," Balsamon nodded. "Come with me, all of you. Gennadios, do tell my next visitor I'll be somewhat delayed, won't you?"

"But-" Realizing the uselessness of any protest he might make, Gennadios gave a sharp, short nod.

"My watchdog," Balsamon sighed as he led his visitors to his chambers. "Strobilos set him on me years ago, to keep an eye on me. I suppose Mavrikios would take him away if I asked, but somehow I've never bothered."

"It must amuse you to bait the ill-humored fool, besides," Soteric said. Andrew had thought the same thing, but not in the cruel way Helvis' brother said it.

Hemond gave him a warning glance, and Helvis laid her hand on her brother's arm, but Balsamon did not seem disturbed. "He's right, you know," the patriarch told them. He looked musingly at Soteric, murmuring, "Such a pretty boy, to have such sharp teeth." Soteric flushed; Andrew was reminded that the patriarch could care for himself on any battle of wits.

Balsamon's audience room was even more crowded with books then Apsimar's had been back at Imbros, and far less orderly in the bargain. Volumes leaned drunkenly against shabby chairs. Others jammed shelves, swallowed tables, and did their best to make couches unusable for mere human beings. Piled on the floor were what editions of the _Videssos Herald_ that had been published.

Peeping out from the few spaces parchment and paper did not cover was a swarm of ivories, some no bigger than a fingernail, others the size of a big man's arm. They were comical, ribald, stately, furious, what have you, and all carved with a rococo extravagance of line alien to the Videssian art Keane had come to know.

"You've spied my vice, I fear," Balsamon said, seeing Andrew's eye roam from one figurine to the next, "and another, I admit unjust, cause for my resentment against Yezd. These are all the work of the Kingdom of Makuran that was; under its new masters, the craft does not flourish. Not much does, save only hatred.

"But you didn't come to hear me speak of ivories," the patriarch said, clearing things enough for them to sit. "Or if you did, I may indeed become a Gambler, from sheer gratitude." As usual, what would have been a provoking name in another's mouth came without offense from his. His hands spread in a gesture of invitation. "What do you think I can do for you?"

Hemond, Helvis, Soteric, and Andrew looked at each other, none of them anxious to begin. After a few seconds of silence, Soteric took the plunge, blunt as always. "We've had reports the people of Videssos are thinking of violence against us because of our faith."

"That would be unfortunate, particularly for you," Balsamon agreed. "What am I to do about it? And why ask me to do anything, for that matter? Why should I? After all, I am hardly of your faith." He pointed at the patriarchal robe draped untidily over a chair.

Soteric drew in a breath to damn the prelate for being the stiff-necked fool he'd thought him, but Helvis caught the gleam of amusement in Balsamon's eye her brother missed. She, too, waved at the crumpled regalia. "Surely your flock respects the office you hold, if nothing else," she said sweetly.

Balsamon threw back his head and laughed till the tears came, clutching his big belly with both hands until his wheezes subsided. "One forgets what a sharp blade irony has-until stuck with it, that is," he said, still chuckling. "Yes, of course I'll pour water on the hotheads; I'll give them ecumenism enough to choke on. For your presumption, if nothing else, you deserve that much. We have worse enemies than those who could be our friends."

The patriarch turned his sharp black stare on Andrew. "What are you, the silent partner in this cabal?"

"If you like." Unlike the Namdaleni, Keane had no intention of being drawn into a verbal duel with Balsamon, knowing it could only have one outcome.

Hemond thought he had little to say out of modesty, not policy, and said, "Andrew brought us word of trouble brewing."

"You have good sources, my quiet friend, but then I already know that, don't I?" Balsamon said, gesturing to the pile of newspapers. "I thought that was your role here-it's too soon for externs like the islanders to have caught the smell of riot. I haven't been working on this sermon more than a day or two myself."

"What?" Andrew said, startled from the calm he'd resolved to maintain. The three Namdaleni simply gaped. Malric had been almost asleep in his mother's arms; startled by the sudden noise, he began to cry. Helvis calmed him automatically, but most of her attention was still on Balsamon.

"Give me some credit for wits, my young friends." The patriarch smiled. "It's a poor excuse for a priest who doesn't know what his people are thinking. More than a few have called me a poor excuse for a priest, but that was never why."

He rose, escorting his astounded guests to a door different from the one they'd used to enter. "It would be best if you left this way," he said. "Gennadios was right, as he all too often is-I do have another visitor coming soon, one who might blink at the company some of you keep."

Thick hedges screened the side door from the front of the patriarchal residence. Peering through the greenery, Andrew saw Gennadios bowing to Thorisin Gavras. Balsamon was right-the Sevastokrator would not be pleased to see the Yankee colonel with three Namdaleni.

"Right?" Hemond exclaimed when Keane remarked on it. The islander was still shaking his head in wonder. "Is he ever wrong?"


End file.
